Lornarion I: Lithuin Tindu
by LA Knight
Summary: Companion fic to Luineyende. Anar has nowhere to go, no one to turn to. But one man will offer him a way out. Not slash!
1. 00 Annuinant

_**At the bottom of this page:**_

_Author's Note_

_The Meaning of the Titles_

_Customs Touched On Here_

_Sources and Inspiration_

.

.

**LORNARION**

**Lithuin Tindu**

**or**

**Out of the Ashes at Twilight**

**Prologue**

**Annuinant**

.

.

**I**

.

He really didn't want to admit it, but he felt strangely naked without the Ranger at his back now. Anarmacil gritted his teeth against the sensation, but it persisted. Somehow, in the week since he and Elluine had been picked up by the Ranger and his men, the _Liemuina_ youth had become used to the presence of the Numenorean at his back, watching out for the two Hidden Ones despite Anarmacil's surliness. And now... now they were alone in the middle of Hobbiton. Furious at the Ranger, Anar cursed him silently. He hated it here.

He led Ambarone on foot, Elluine slumping in the saddle. She was exhausted, that he could see easily. Her injuries were still not even half-healed, and had been worse than his own to start with. That, and her unfamiliarity with sleeping in the wilderness, had turned her into a practically lifeless zombie. He was a little better off. He could still trudge.

He had asked directions to Bag End off of a _Hobbit_ maiden, who had stuttered them out while staring at the black bruise where his cheek used to be. Doltish girl. He hated being stared at. He knew what the _Halflings_ were thinking when they stared at him that way. Their round, fearful eyes told him that no matter what he had done, no matter why he had done it, to them he would always be a butcher, a murderer. He had helped save the forests during the Fell Winter, helped to save the Hobbits. But he was from the Village, and he was a soldier, a warrior -

_his sword wet with the blood of a thousand enemies  
sweat and blood dripping into his eyes  
the burning sting of a thousand cuts blazing across every inch of exposed skin  
the right side of his face throbbing hotly across his cracked cheekbone  
the crimson cloth across his mouth the only thing preventing the thick, choking smoke from fouling his lungs..._

His clenched fists were what snapped him back from the past, back into the grips of reality. His nails, short and ragged, were slowly gouging painful crescents into his palms. The pain - and the lack of a sword hilt in his hand - reminded him that nothing here was as it had been. He was not one of the despised heroes, and the _Hobbit_ girl was only staring at him because he was a frightful sight, barely healed bruises and black-scabbed cuts, one arm in a sling to appease Aragorn's nagging, his clothes disheveled and travel-stained. The girl wasn't looking at him for _him_. She was looking because he was a Village lad in a sorry state. After her stumbling curtsy and mumbled directions, he immediately started moving away from her. Once out of sight, he knew she'd immediately go back to her chores. He was grateful for that.

"You're anxious," Elluine said softly. She didn't seem to notice the people staring at them. He couldn't stop himself from flinching under their seemingly accusing eyes. Around and around in his head, he whispered, _I'm not a murderer, I'm not a murderer, I'm not, I'm not..._

"Anar?" His friend's voice was softer than mist. "What's wrong?"

The youth didn't answer her. He couldn't. Too many memories threatened to slash him to ribbons. He saw the _Hobbit_ holes, saw the Little People scurrying about their lives, and wondered if they knew how close it had come to their extinction all those years ago. He looked at the white road, the dirt a strange color like dusty bone, and shuddered as bloody slush superimposed itself in his eyes over what was really there. The world darkened to night for a long moment, a night lit up by burning thatch and flaming trees, and he instinctively closed his eyes against the sight of a long ago battle field. He tried to force himself back to the present.

_Not the past,_ he thought forcibly to himself. _Not Buckland. Not the Smials. Not the Old Forest. This is Hobbiton. It's daytime. It's summer, still. You're with Elluine, not Naira. Everything is fine. Open your eyes and see it's all fine._

As he thought these things to himself, he opened his eyes. He had to focus on something real, something in the here and now. The only thing in front of him was the _Hobbit_ town, and just the thought threatened to plunge him back into half-real memories of too real horrors. He jerked his head around, the bones in his neck popping in protest, seeking for something to lock his eyes onto, and he found Elluine's crystal blue eyes, her silver-gold hair, her pale, too thin face. For a moment, that was all he needed. He was in Hobbiton, with Elluine, in the summer. Not in the forest, with Naira and the others, in the depths of the Fell Winter. Not in the battles his father had commanded him to forget...

And that was his undoing. Thoughts of his father were his downfall. Elluine's pale eyes shifted by only a shade, darkening only a minute bit, her hair lightening to shock whiteness, and he was wrenched out of the relative safety of the mind that Ellie's face had granted him. It was only a single moment in time, but it shredded his self-control and thrust him back into memories -

_battle cries and curses from familiar throats  
the clash of metal, blade against blade  
blistering heat as the sun beats down upon them at noontide  
Anar swearing under his breath at his own idiocy, to have attacked a Fainmando in broad daylight  
the stench of smoke and blood choking him  
fire blazing in his chest, a burning pain, scorching and searing his heart  
someone screaming, screaming and calling his name, screaming...  
"Anar!" She screams, and he turns to her  
blue eyes, darker than water crystals, electrified by fright  
arrow whistling through the air toward an unprotected back  
piercing flesh with a wet, clotted sound  
and she **screams  
"**Anar!"_

"Anar!"

He jerked back to himself at the sound of Elluine calling his name. He blinked rapidly, his eyes stinging, and fought back what might have been called tears if seen swimming in the eyes of someone else. But he refused to allow himself to consider the possibility that this wretched _Halfling_ township had the ability to reduce him nearly to tears – not after everything he had done to strengthen his hold on his self-control. He blinked back the stinging wetness and looked around, for the first time realizing that he'd been walking the whole time. They were nearly through the town already. Bag End was close. They were near the drive. A little ways past the Hill of Bag End was the woods. They called to him, whispered of peace from the town that raked up so many cruel memories.

"Anar," the water-fated _Liemuina_ girl called tentatively from Ambarone's back. "Anar, are you all right? What's wrong?"

"Nothing," he said mechanically, lying through his teeth, breaking yet another of the Hidden People's laws. But he couldn't tell her. He wasn't even sure what he could have said. He wondered briefly if he was going mad. He'd had the same thought, years ago, when he and Naira and Linde had been separated at first. He'd thought he'd been going mad because wherever he turned around, he saw familiar violet or sunrise colored eyes, the lovely raven black or copper fire hair that made his heart thump painfully in his chest. He would blink, and the images would disappear, rendering unto his questing, hungry gaze the familiar outlines of the forest, the Village, or its people. He hated that. He despised it.

And now the memories of war were threatening to swamp him, drown him, butcher him. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, hoping the pain would drown out the voices of the trees, and it did, but the taste of coppery blood dragged him down into the memories of battle-

_steel clanging against _vilyekemen  
_sweat and blood pouring down his face  
shoulder burning where an Orc blade strikes armor, cracking the bone  
muscles ache as he blocks sword thrust after sword thrust  
salt stings in a thousand cuts, makes his eyes burn  
he's lost his helmet somehow, but it doesn't matter, he must fight, must keep on  
arms and shoulders and legs burning with fatigue  
a silver horn bugling in the distance, calling them back to the Smials, to protect the Thain  
must run to protect the Thain  
dodge the enemy's blades  
slash, thrust  
a sword comes hurtling towards his face..._

He came to himself in the woods, curled up on his knees, sagging against the trunk of an aged pine, his arms curling around his chest. He sucked in air, gasping for breath in the aftermath of the flashback. His heart felt as if it would shatter his ribs. All he could do was cry, great breathless sobs, and rock himself back and forth as twilight - when had it fallen - continued to deepen. He hugged himself as the tremors threatened to tear him apart, ripping at him from the gaping hole in his chest and thrusting outwards. He gasped for breath, shuddering. Laughter, soft and feminine, filled his ears, wrenching at him. He clapped his hands against his head. He didn't see that his knuckles were suddenly scraped and bleeding, his palms bruised from beating the rough trunk of the pine tree and the stony soil. He tried to block out the laughter, tried to forget the images blasting through his mind. Elusive as poison breath, they flickered in and out of his consciousness, dragging at him, slashing at him. Agony, gripping his chest in a vise, spasmed through his body, and he passed out into merciful unconsciousness.

Elluine was not by his side.

.

**II**

.

Anarmacil came to himself with a shudder and blinked his eyes open, just staring up at the sky and getting his bearings. He was in the woods, he knew. He smelled leaf mold and resinous bark, felt the prick of pine needles and the sharp contours of stones beneath his back, pressing into his skin despite the red wool shirt and leather vest he wore. His clothes were so worn after the last week, he was surprised his vest didn't have gapped stitching at the seams. He saw dark sky overhead, the pinpricks of silver white and ice blue stars wheeling over his head. He sighed, and inhaled the warm, summer night air. Wood smoke touched his nose, and his ears picked up the crackling of flames and a song sung low and soft, in fluent Elvish. The Liemuina youth's blood ran cold for a moment at finding himself in the company of another before he realized that he recognized the owner of the singing voice.

Aragorn.

Anarmacil found himself transfixed by the soft singing, a song he had never heard before, but somehow, he recognized the pain, the grief, the longing infused with the Ranger's voice as he sang.

_"Aran eänë yáressë_

_nó Atani vantaner cemenessë_

_túrerya né ortaina hróto lumbulë,_

_márya né or tumbo ar taurë._

_Lassiva rierya, laiqua collarya_

_telpië ehtaryar andë ar aicë,_

_i silmë turmaryassë né mapaina..."_

The boy sat up gingerly, feeling his aches in places he didn't even think existed in a normal person. He looked around now, and saw that he'd been wrapped in his own cloak, as well as a leather coat and a second, mottled gray and green cloak made of thick cloth. It was pinned with a reddish gold leaf from a tree he didn't recognize. For a moment, he found himself transfixed by the sight of that reddish gold, and though it was a broach, not an earring, he was suddenly swamped by a memory-

_"Take it, please..."_

_Yellow gold and red gold_

_Flash of the sun off of metal, the sparks of beginning_

_Heart pounding in his chest as he blushes hot_

_Amber tear drop glinting in the light_

_Ruby burning in the shadows_

_"For me?"_

_As proof, he thinks to himself, but cannot say_

_Proof that he loves her, proof that he will one day ask to wed her_

_"Do you like it?" He can't help but ask_

_Her eyes are her answer, smoldering liquid gold -_

With a barely smothered cry, he pulled himself back together, clutching his body with a tight embrace to keep himself from falling apart. He was rocking hard back and forth, but he didn't realize it. He could only bite his lip until teeth drew blood and try to shove the memories away. Against his will, he reached up to touch the ragged, scabbed ear with the missing silver hoop. Finding it gone, and remembering why he'd been wearing silver in the first place, he groaned softly. For what seemed an eternity, he could only hold himself tight, trying not to shatter. His chest ached, and his eyes burned.

After a long while, he felt calm enough to get out of the cloak cocoon he'd been wrapped in and face the Man waiting for him. Pushing the cloaks aside, he found himself pinned by the keen, dark gray eyes of the Ranger. He didn't stop stirring the pot beside which he knelt, but his eyes never left Anar's face. There was a wealth of concern in those eyes. Anar felt heat, the fires of his anger, rush into his face, and found himself forced to look away.

"Are you hurt?" Aragorn asked.

Incredulously, the golden-haired youth jerked around to stare at him, wondering if he'd suddenly lost his mind. Of course Anarmacil was hurt. Aragorn himself had seen to those injuries, including setting his broken arm, which currently throbbed like a rotten tooth from wrist to shoulder. Why would he ask if the boy were hurt? Then it dawned on him. He meant emotionally. The Ranger was trying to be kind to him, trying to offer him help. Well, he had Anar's thanks, but there would be no asking for help from this mortal, who looked so much like the King of Darkness.

"What are you singing about?" He asked instead of answering the Ranger's question.

Aragorn stopped stirring a pot of woodland stew long enough to murmur, "The Lay of Leithian."

At once, Anarmacil knew why he'd felt such a keen ache in his chest when hearing the melody, if not the words. He could recognize a love song a league away. Theirs were the melodies that ripped him to shreds, theirs the lyrics that burned within the inside of his skull. He hated that, but this was... interesting. He'd always wanted to hear _the Lay of Leithian_, the full tale of Beren the mortal man and Luthian Tinuviel, the Elf maiden descended from one of the Maia, but the song was considered taboo in the Mirea Ronde because of the love between Races.

"You need to come with me," the mortal man said, his voice stern, commanding, breaking Anar's reverie.

It reminded Anar suddenly of another man with dark hair, whose eyes, instead of that keen, steely gray, were the black of midnight, the black of pitch, so black that you could sink into them and drown in darkness. It wasn't the face, the dark beard across the cleft chin, the commanding eyes, or the regal posture. It was the tone. Anarmacil was suddenly reminded of the one man he hated more than anyone else, a man with dark hair nearly to his shoulders, a dark beard across a cleft chin, and commanding eyes you could lose your soul in because he was a void of nothingness. Anar felt tears sting his eyes, but he thrust them back, bit his lip until he tasted blood, clenched his fists at his sides. He would not cry just because this mere Ranger had the gall to look so much like Morquanar, Anarmacil's father.

"Did you hear me, Anarmacil? You must come with me. You are in desperate need of help, and as no one has offered it to you yet, it seems I must, whatever reservations you may have about me. You need my help, and you must take it." There was a strange earnestness in the Ranger's voice, but the boy didn't care. His hate was a physical thing, black and stinging as it oozed through his veins, welled up behind his eyes, twisted his mouth, curled his hands into bloody fists.

"Why?" He demanded around a mouthful of blood, but it came out somewhat garbled. Irritated, he spat a gob of scarlet onto the grass and repeated the question. "Why? What reason do I have to trust you? And what help can you give me?" The youth demanded angrily, his belly twisting into what seemed a thousand knots. Even as he tried to block out the Ranger's words, they repeated in his mind: you are in desperate need of help... Yes, he knew that. The nightmares, the flashbacks, the hallucinations, the paranoia... he knew he needed help. But what kind of help could he get from this Man of Westernesse? "Why does everyone want to help me? Everyone I know - my father, my mother, my brothers - they all say they wish to 'help' me. Yet on the receiving end of that help, I can honestly say I would rather be dead than accept their sweetly poisoned lies or be a part of their schemes. No offense, Master Longshanks, but I am afraid I must tender my regrets."

He said this last through clenched teeth, barely able to keep the leash on his temper from snapping. He wanted to lunge at the older man, tackle him to the ground, beat him until he simply shut up and stopped trying to torment Anar. But he knew in a fight between himself and Aragorn, he would lose.

Badly.

"I swear on the sword I bear and the honor of the Dunedain that I would never do you harm," Aragorn told him firmly, but Anarmacil simply snorted in derision. How many oaths had been sworn to him? How many oaths had he himself sworn? _All of them, _he thought bitterly, had been broken long ago. But the Ranger was still speaking. He continued, "I have come to a decision."

The youth with eyes like a summer night sky felt his blood chill in his veins. He began to tremble. Aragorn had come to a decision. _Aragorn had come to a decision_. What decision? What was he going to do to Anarmacil? Hurt him? Beat him? Rape him, perhaps? Kill him? There were countless Men who would do that and probably worse – if worse there was. And of course, the Liemuina youth could not overlook the simple fact that the stern, gray-eyed Ranger had come to some kind of decision. How many times had he heard that phrase? "I have come to a decision." That had been the phrase to ruin his life, to exile him, to imprison Naira because he hadn't known what it meant that she refused to tell him who her blasted father was. All of the hell and heartache had come from that simple sentence.

_I have come to a decision._

Rage boiled in his veins, and he could see his pulse throbbing, a black star in the top right corner of his vision as his heart crashed against his ribs with fury.

A decision. Really.

"And what decision is that?" Anar hissed through clenched teeth, voice dripping like acid. He felt his face twist with hate, felt his stomach knot and churn. He didn't care. He could be sick later. Right now, he had to stand tall, show this bastard that he, Anarmacil Carlothel of the Glittering City, was not afraid of a mere Ranger. He would never be afraid of this Man, he decided, chewing the inside of his cheek. He would never be afraid of any Man. Or any Liemuina, for that matter. He was so sick of being afraid. He was sick of everything. There was nothing this Ranger could say that would make him feel any different. "Well?" He demanded after the silence had stretched overlong. "What decision is that?"

"I want you to be my apprentice."

.

.

.

**Author's Note**

This is Anar's story. It takes place at the same time as Elluine's, and at times they'll meet up, but this story is mostly for Anarmacil. Yes, I know, we don't know much about how the Rangers work, exactly, but they have to learn their Ranger ways from somewhere. Anyway, I hope you enjoyed the prologue.

**Meaning of the Titles**

Lornarion = son of golden fire; literally "golden" + "fire" + "son of." I figured it was a good description for Anarmacil's character. Lornarion is the name of his series, NOT this fanfic.

Lithuin, as stated in the title, means "out of the ashes." Literally "ash" + "out of." I figured it was a good first title. This is going to be, I think, a quartet - Lithuin Tindu (Out of the Ashes at Twilight), Tinwer Moremi (Embers in the Night), Uriel Mornie (Burning Darkness), and Enair Amaurea (Fires of Dawn).

Annuinant is a contraction of two words - annuin + ant; west + gift. Literally, west-gift, or Gift of the West.

**Customs Touched On Here**

The flashback Anarmacil has is a custom employed by the Liemuina. In Luineyende it is mentioned that the Hidden People wear earrings to denote allegiance, rank, elemental affinity, etc. An early courtship ritual (such as the modern giving of chocolate or flowers) is to exchange one of your earrings with the person you wish to court. Having that earring returned is a sign that the other person wishes to break off the relationship.

**Sources and Inspiration**

The Dark Jewels Trilogy by Anne Bishop (the line sweetly poisoned lies)

http : / www . elvish . org / gwaith / leithian . htm (translation of the Lay of Leithian into Quenya)

The Mage Winds Trilogy by Mercedes Lackey (inspiration for the ring-exchange)

New Moon by Stephanie Meyer (reactions to teen trauma)

Ranger's Apprentice Series (apprentice/master dynamic)

Skulduggery Pleasant (apprentice/master dynamic)

Terrier by Tamora Pierce (apprentice/master dynamic)

www . nevrast . net (Elvish dictionary)


	2. 01 The Road to Bree Pt 1

_**At the bottom of this chapter:**_

_Author's Note_

_Mary-Sue Litmus Test Results  
The Sequence of Events_

_Elvish Names and Words_

_Concerning Earrings_

.

.

**Lornarion**

**Lithuin Tindu**

**Chapter One**

**The Road to Bree  
Part One**

.

.

**I**

.

"I want you to be my apprentice."

For a long moment, Anarmacil could only stare at the Ranger in disbelief, something like shock burning across his face. Then he threw back his head and laughed, long and hard. Hardy guffaws, rasping cackles, near hysterical giggles - they all managed to escape his mouth at the very idea of what Aragorn was saying. Finally, the _Liemuina_ youth managed to calm down, managed to beat back the laughter with that dangerous edge of hysteria.

"That was a good jest," the boy half-snarled. "Tell me another."

"Anarmacil," Aragorn said, his voice gentle. It cut the boy like a knife of cold iron. "I mean what I say. I want you for my apprentice. I wish to teach you the ways of the Dunedain. Many have joined our ranks in the past, swearing allegiance to we Rangers and our leader. You can do the same. What other choices have you? You swear you shall not return to the Village. The fact that I found you in the forest, Elluine gone from your side, seems to mean you will not stay in Hobbiton. What would you do, then, Anar?"

Hopelessness suddenly overwhelmed the _Liemuina_ youth. What was he supposed to do? Return to the Village? He would rather die. The only people there who meant anything were Arthur, Tauriel, Breeyid and Carvilion, Cirince's brother. Well, he supposed Cirince as well. But Arthur was surely out in the forest already searching for him. Tauriel and Breeyid? He doubted the _Tavari_ would allow the younger _Cenmarta_ to remain in the Village after what had happened to Elluine, and she herself would rather burn to death than stay with Nimrohwen and her cruelty. As for Carvilion...

Anar fought tears again. How many had he lost? Nenimir, Linde, Mirilhun, Naira, Ellie, Arthur, Carvilion...

"Anarmacil?" The mortal man prompted, still keeping his regal voice at a soothing murmur. He didn't like the look of horror slowly stealing across the pale face, or the way hope drained from the boy's eyes. What was the lad thinking? The Ranger could not discern what grief was stealing the warmth from his heart, and it worried him greatly.

"I don't know," the boy half-whispered, half-moaned. He held up his good hand and tried to raise the hand attached to his broken arm. Both hands shook. His chin quivered and his lips trembled as he added, "I do not know where to go, or who to trust."

Aragorn had a feeling that the lad had forgotten his presence. He seemed to speak more to himself than to the Ranger.

"You can come with me to Rivendell," he said to remind the boy of where he was and who he was with. "That is neither an acceptance of my offer to be my apprentice or a denial. But in the House of Elrond, you will be safe and will be given time to find peace from the pains of your heart. Does this appeal to you?" He asked, still slowly stirring the woodland stew on the fire and watching the Village boy try to contemplate his new offer. What had damaged this boy, that he had so much hate and anger, so much fear? "What say you, Anarmacil?"

The _Liemuina_ youth scruffed his dirty hair and tried to focus. He struggled to block out the overwhelming sense of loss, the strange feeling of drifting in darkness and nothingness, and think about what the Ranger was saying, but it was difficult. Faces swam before his eyes - Naira's, with her halo of fiery copper hair and her molten gold eyes, the slightly misshapen nose, the way the flesh of one cheek seemed to melt down her face like wax from where she'd burned herself during the Fell Winter; Linde, scarred from their father's madness, her one good eye staring out at him like a gleaming pool of liquid amethyst, her sightless eye nestled in a mound of bone-white and corpse-gray scar tissue, which she hid behind the curtain of her jet black hair; Carvilion, his hawk eyes blindfolded against the garish sun of early morning, his skin etched with the lines that would have been feathers on a pureblood _ravisoron_, his feathery red hair rustling like bird feathers in the wind as they talked of swords and fighting styles...

Shaking his head, Anar wrenched himself back to reality and bit the inside of his cheek until it bled to anchor himself. Like that long ago time of his exile, his mind was trying to play tricks on him again, showing him what his heart longed for.

"I... yes," he said, a tint of hysteria edging his response. He barely knew what he was saying. But Aragorn claimed that Rivendell offered peace. Elves, an entire community of Elves, who could heal the spirit and the mind as well as the body: they waited in Rivendell. Anar should go there, that's where he ought to be.

_Yes, _he thought wildly, desperately. _Anywhere but here, where the woods echo with my sisters' laughter and my lover's screams. Away from Ellie and Carvilion, from the Village. Just away, please..._

"Yes?" The Ranger wanted to be sure.

"Yes, I'll go with you to Rivendell," Anarmacil murmured, defeated. As the energy drained out of him, weariness and grief took its place. He tried to ignore what it was saying, but he could not. He was too exhausted. He needed to sleep.

_Sleep,_ he thought longingly, and then, _Naira. Linde. _His love, his sister. He missed them both. His heart throbbed in tandem with their names. Thump-thud, Nai-ra, thump-thud, Lin-de, thump-thud. Struggling to draw an even breath, the Liemuina youth slumped back down to the leaves and the loam of the forest floor, careful of his broken arm. Sighing heavily, he pulled the cloaks back over himself as shields against the cold, and tried to find sleep.

Aragorn said nothing to him. He only continued to watch the food simmering in the brass pot, and consider carefully what he intended to do.

.

**II**

.

"Watch out!"

Even after all these years, she was not fast enough. Before the dark-haired young woman could turn her head far enough to see the projectile zooming through the air straight for her head, it had struck her square in the face. Flinching from the impact on the sensitive scars around her eye, Mornie - though in this familiar setting, among friends, she was known as Morelinde, or simply Linde - managed to catch the blob of bread dough in her cupped hands.

"Linde, are you hurt?"

"No," she said, and handed the dough roll back to her youngest brother.

Talagant scruffed his dirty-blond hair and accepted the dough. Rubbing absently at his ears, the young _Liemuina_ squeezed the doughy ball in his hand, feeling the sticky, floury mess oozing between his fingers while he eyed Linde. The girl, in turn, watched him from behind her hair. Out of the mound of fleshy, white and grey scars, her violet eye gleamed. Talagant, in turn, started to squirm.

"I'll go give this back to Cook," he mumbled, and hurried off.

Linde turned back to the book in her lap. The white pages were stained a ruddy orange by the firelight. On a bench near the hearth of one of the smaller kitchens, the princess tried to make a notation in one of her law books, but the ink in her pen had dried. She shook the feather quill, glared at, shook it again, but nothing worked, so she gave up and sat back.

The book, a grand tome bound in gray leather, weighed about ten or twelve pounds. Linde hated it, the heaviness and decrepitousness of it. Only for her beloved twin did she peruse the great volume with the silver heron on the spine. There had to be something within the musty pages that she could use in her arguments with her father, something that would force Morquanar to allow Anarmacil back to the _Mirea_ _Ronde_, back to the family of Carlothel. There had to be something...

She rubbed her good eye, which burned with tiredness, then rubbed her bad one. The flesh around it ached and prickled. She hated that. The pulpy, deathly-colored scars like amassed drips of melted wax surrounded her blind eye and crept over her right cheek, the result of a red-hot sword being pressed against her face by the enemy. Though it had been kept a breath from her actual eye, the heat had done its job, searing her eye and the flesh around it. Once violet, the eye was now pale gray, empty and sightless. It was why Linde sat so close to the fire, even with her heavy skirts and the fragile, flammable pages of the law text - the heat kept her scars from hurting much.

"You're going to poke your eye out," said a lightly teasing voice. "Oops! Too late."

The princess glanced up to see her cousin, Hraveyar, dodging under-cooks and kitchen boys, slipping between cooking fires and hot cauldrons. At exactly five feet even, slender as a reed, it was easy for someone to damage her cousin, but that didn't stop the petite _Liemuina_ girl from zipping through the hustle and bustle until she could sit beside Linde on the hearth bench.

"Why do you always say that?"

"Because somehow you managed to practically poke out your own eye," Hraveyar informed Linde matter-of-factly, as if it ought to be obvious. "Don't be embarrassed," the auburn-haired _Liemuina_ added. Shrugging deprecatingly, she continued, "The Princess Olosse almost brained herself looking in the mirror this morning."

The Princess Olosse was Linde's younger sister.

"Trying to kiss her reflection again?" Linde asked.

"Better than when she nearly drowned trying to kiss her reflection in the fountain," Hraveyar said, and Linde finally smiled at that.

Olosse, while excruciatingly beautiful - with frosty white skin like porcelain, a curvaceous figure, a cascade of ebony curls down her back, and lips as red as blood - was also the unfortunate possessor of the brains of a dead crab. Linde's cousin was not exaggerating when she said that the other princess had nearly drowned trying to kiss her own reflection on the surface of the water, hence why Linde smiled. Smiling - or frowning - was difficult for the girl because the scars over her cheek kept part of her face stiff, but when around her cousin the dark-haired princess hardly even noticed.

"Be nice," Linde murmured.

"Then there was the time she nearly scorched her lips trying to kiss that silver teapot," Hraveyar went on as if her cousin hadn't spoken, "And when she fainted because she wanted to see if being blue looked better than her usual color."

"Hraveyar," the princess protested, chewing on her lips.

"Did you know her horse took a chomp out of her this morning, too?"

Concerned, Linde frowned and shook her head. Olosse was not a good rider. In point of fact, she would probably lose a race against a bag of rocks riding a dead plow horse. The half-blind maiden had no notion why the silly creature tried to ride, but she did. Her gelding - white, with a black mane and tail and a pale gold blaze, more than eighteen hands high - was far too big for her, but she thought he was... pretty. Even thinking it made Linde grimace in sympathy for the poor beast. And now he'd bitten her sister.

"Why?"

"Well, I probably should not say," Hraveyar began, and Linde punched her in the arm. "Ow. Well, all right, then. She poked the poor beast in the eye."

Linde clapped a hand over her mouth, eyes wide.

"You know Olosse and her taste for stable boys, yes? Well, that new boy, Celebaer? The _Nenmarta_ boy? Apparently Olosse batted her eyelashes at him and he had the gall to ignore her. I heard the maids say that the boy has a lady in the city, a Narmarta girl, of all things. Anyway, but so this happened some weeks ago. She's tried to get his attention a lot since then. You'll want to keep your ear to the ground on this, Linde, dear, in case it becomes a problem. But this morning Olosse tried to catch the boy's attention with all sorts of things, like going out in her shift, and nothing worked, so while she was brushing her horse she poked the creature in the eye trying to get the boy's attention and the poor thing bit her."

"I would wager she's unhappy," Linde said, sighing. Olosse was a vain flirt, and had all the makings of a world-class strumpet.

"She went to your father to petition for the beast's execution. That's actually the main reason I came to see you. His Majesty sent me to fetch you."

"Oh."

Cold fear slid into the girl's belly, erasing all the merriment that had been present on her ravaged face. Her father had sent for her. While Linde did not fear her father, exactly, she did fear that one day she would push the king too far and he would lose his trust in her. Out of all the children Morquanar boasted - all seventy-eight - he only trusted Morelinde, for she was the heir and had never given him cause to doubt her, despite her bond with her twin brother, whom her father hated.

Nibbling on her lower lip, the princess rose and smoothed her heavy, purple skirts before lifting the heavy book of _Liemuina_ law from the bench. With a nod to Hraveyar, Linde slipped out of the room. Generally a bit clumsy in the kitchen, this time she managed to escape with only a singed elbow.

.

**III**

.

Ever since his exile, Anarmacil dreamed of Nairaloth. There was nothing supernatural about his dreams. They were not visions of things yet to occur, as came to some in the world. Naira had no powers or Talents to speak of, so the dreams could not be her doing. They were simply the result of his longing to see her. He drew comfort from them, even as they broke him upon the spikes of his memory.

In his dreams, he was back in the gardens behind and around his father's Palace, surrounded by the looming dusk and dawn colored blooms. The verdant gardens stretched out around him, a false promise of sanctuary. Overhead, the sky was kissed at the edges by the last fires of the setting sun.

"You should trust him," Naira told him in his dream.

Anar glanced at her from the corner of his eye. Her hair was down, a cascade of blazing copper over her shoulders. That was different. He liked it. In a black gown, wrapped in a golden mantle embroidered with crimson stars and suns, she perched on a bench, looking weary. Had he ever seen her like that in real life? Of course, he reminded himself. The war had hauled them both into bone-tired weariness. The two of them and every one else who had come to protect the Hobbits during the Fell Winter.

"He's not our kind," Anarmacil told her, wondering why he bothered. It was only a dream, wasn't it? How could he reason with a figment of his own mind?

"Anar, since when have you become such a racist? That's Morquanar's words out of your mouth. They are not your own. Because this man is not one of the Hidden does not mean he cannot be trusted. You ought to give him a chance."

"How can you say that?" He demanded. "I would never spout my father's filth, how can you..." He trailed off, and sank down beside her on the gold-veined white marble bench. "I cannot trust this Man, Naira, I _cannot_. He does not understand how it to be _Liemuina_. Can Hobbits understand Elves? Can Elves understand Valar? It is to each Race to understand their own and no other. How can a mere Ranger hope to understand who we are and what we have done?"

"Take out the 'we' and replace it with 'I' and you have your true question, don't you, my sun blade?"

Stung, the _Liemuina_ youth stared at the serene young woman sitting beside him. Her liquid gold eyes took him in and showed nothing of what she thought. She had always been that way, her gaze a mirror of his own thoughts, hiding her mind from him. But how could she say these things to him?

"I don't know what you mean."

"Yes you do. We are both broken, you and I. Both warriors of our beloved Royal Army, Eagles soaring on the Shining Silver Wind," she said, and her words filled his mouth with bitterness. Naira continued, "We were cast out because of our sins. We have done good, and by accident committed evil. You think no one but the two of us, and perhaps your sister, understand what we have been through. And perhaps you're right," Naira said, and as he opened his mouth to say, _See, you agree with me, then,_ she continued, "And perhaps you are _wrong_, Anar."

Uncertain of what to say, uncertain even what to think, Anar only stared at the moon rising above the walls of the garden, a great white orb tinged with just a touch of crimson blood. What did it portend, that blood? The spatter on the face of the moon turned it into the face of a mad beast hungry for death.

A shiver ran up Anarmacil's spine.

"The Blood Beast Moon," Naira whispered, and leaned against him, shaking. "What do you dream of, Anar?"

"You," he told her.

"No," the dream-Naira breathed against his shoulder, her voice the wind in the trees at twilight. "No, you dream of more. Your dreams are full of danger and fear. What do you fear, Anar? What evils haunt your steps? I think I know," she added, the pain in her voice a burning brand in the dark. "You fear Morquanar, even in your sleep. The reach of the King of Darkness is far, but this far? I have more to fear from him than you, Anarmacil. I lay within his grasp in my tower, while you are free in your exile."

"I tried to save you," he told her. "I tried to rescue you from that tower."

The silence stretched out around them. High in the heavens, floating amidst the bone-white clouds, the bloody moon leered down at them hungrily. Golden solar fire did not diminish at the edges of the night. The two were trapped in the very second of the dream's beginning. No time would pass around them. In the stillness and the silence, with only the wind for a song, Naira held her own counsel and Anar felt the icy grip of fear squeezing his heart.

He was a coward. He knew this. Brave he had been, but no longer. He would run from this dream because Naira's words were like poison to his mind, but he would run back to it again because he feared being without even the brief contact of dreaming of her. And when he woke? Would he still choose to journey to the House of Elrond with Aragorn, or would he go back on his word? Weariness and fear had motivated his acceptance of that journey - weariness, fear, and a pervading hopelessness stealing into his bones. But either choice - to go, or not to go - was backed by cowardice. What choices did he have?

"I tried to save you, Naira," he said again. It was the only thing, the only excuse - paltry though it was - that he could offer her.

Liquid gold gaze ensnared him. His heart lurched in his chest, and he wondered if he should just fall upon his short-sword and end it all. There was such agony in Naira's gaze. Was it her own pain, or a reflection of his? Uncertainty warred within him. He was such a coward. Were those his only choices? Run from Aragorn, run from his directionlessness, or run from life altogether? Even helping Elluine had been fueled by fear, fear of losing another sister, though this time in heart and not blood.

"I tried."

"I know," she said.

.

**IV**

.

For once, Anarmacil was glad to be woken from his nightmarish dreams of Nairaloth. Still, he was startled. Aragorn was shaking him. The only reason the youth didn't lash out with his knife was because he knew for a fact that it was the Ranger - he could hear the mortal Man calling his name, though distantly. Why did his voice sound so far away? Why did the Ranger look so horrified? What was wrong? Were there Orcs nearby? Was there danger?

Suddenly, Anar realized he was screaming. He thrashed as if being pinned by monsters and shrieked as if fire ate at his flesh and bones. As soon as the realization hit him, he went quiet and fell still. Gasping for air, he blinked and looked around. He'd only slept for a couple hours at the most. The stars were not so far advanced in their heavenly courses as he had anticipated.

"I'm sorry," the boy whispered, and heaved a sigh. Clean air, unperfumed by the heavy blooms of the Royal Gardens, tasted sweet to him. "Did I attract any dangers?"

The Ranger shook his head, and helped the boy to slowly sit up.

"Do you want to talk about it?"

"No," Anar whispered.

"When you're ready, then," Aragorn said, and handed him a bowl of something warm and rich smelling. "Here," he ordered, and Anar's hands closed convulsively about the wooden bowl. "It's stew, it's good for you. Eat it." The Ranger watched as the boy took a spoonful and put it into his mouth. His movements were wooden. It made the older man a little nervous to see the boy like that. Where had his fire gone?

"When do we leave for Rivendell?" The boy asked softly.

Aragorn studied him, the hollow eyes as blank as bare parchment, the pale face, the sweat-drenched hair, the thin lips. There was something sickly and wan about the lad. He had changed so much in only a day. When Aragorn had left him and the girl at the edges of the Forest of Buckland, there'd been pain in the boy from his injuries, but also wit and fire and even a little enjoyment. Now there was simply... nothing. It was as if the spirit were not there.

"We can leave now," the Ranger said, watching Anar. "If you wish to. But perhaps you'd like some sleep, first."

"No," the Village youth protested immediately. "No, no sleep. I... I dream when I sleep. I do not... no. We can leave now. Yes, that would be good, I think. I'm ready now." Closing his glassy eyes, the boy put the bowl of stew upon the ground and looked everywhere but at Aragorn.

"Eat first," the Ranger said. "And then we'll leave."

So the boy picked the bowl up again, and ate the stew. It was like ashes in his mouth, but he ate it anyway, eyes turned inward, locked on whatever visions lay within.

.

**V**

.

Linde swept down the long, lofty corridors of black stone, her skirts shushing over the cold floor. The cold radiated into her feet, even through her slippers. After only a few minutes of being out of the warmth of the kitchens, her face began to itch and prickle as the scars tightened and a dull ache began throbbing in her right knee. By the time she made it to the doors of white ironwood that led to her parents' audience hall, the princess was limping badly.

The four men-at-arms standing at attention in front of the doors nodded to her and stood aside to allow her to pass. One of them - Huanmor, Linde remembered, recognizing him by the five slash marks across his face from the claws of a bear - pushed the double doors of polished white wood wide, and strode in before her to announce her to the king.

"Her Royal Highness, the Princess Mornie Carlothel, the Heir of Shadows, the People's Princess," Huanmor called to those within, and Linde came forward.

Ahead, she saw her father in his silver chair and a figure standing before him in a dark green gown. Her mother's seat was empty, the King's consort nowhere to be seen. The other two thrones were also bare of occupants.

"Come forward, Princess Mornie," her father commanded from across the vast, nearly empty room, and she obeyed, limping across the plush, white carpets the color of bone until she stood by the side of the lone figure in front of her parents' thrones - Olosse, who's arm was strapped to her chest in a sling. Her smoldering, acid green eyes flicked to Linde, glancing briefly at the law book before returning to Morquanar's face. The other girl looked at her father as well.

He looked tired.

In black leather armor, with a crown of silver thorns resting upon his head and his war hammer clenched in one gauntleted fist, he looked like a weary warrior. The thick black hair, shot with threads of bone white that framed his face was tied back in a loose horsetail with a leather thong. His keen, steel grey eyes burned like the light of the cold winter stars. Though he was still in his prime, his tanned and weathered face held more crags and crevices than a mountain range. The king's features were proud, his visage grim, but when he saw Linde in her simple lavender dress his eyes softened.

"Ah, my daughter, my Mornie, the only one of my children who does not plot against me," Morquanar said.

Beside Linde, Olosse stiffened and shot her a hurt look. The other princess did not dare turn away from her father. If Olosse had been different, Linde might have worried about her sister slapping her, or maybe arranging something more permanent to befall her some dark night. But Olosse, while vain and a more than a little stupid, loved her oldest sister enough that she could excuse the king's favoritism.

It only made Linde feel worse about the whole thing.

"Olosse Carlothel would never harm you or plot against you, my royal father," she said, trying to make things a little better. "Like me, her first loyalty is to you, her king and liege lord."

"Is this true, Olosse?" Morquanar demanded of his second eldest daughter, who nodded. "Then why do you seek to slay a beast of my royal cavalry?"

"But, Father, he _bit_ me!"

"You poked him in the eye, you daft creature," Linde said before she could stop herself. "Why do you insist on trying to ride a beast too large for you? Why do you try to ride at all? You're afraid of horses."

There was silence, and Olosse stared at the ground. Morelinde could not be certain, because of the light and the fact that her sister was on her right, but she thought a tear had dripped off the end of her younger sister's nose. Linde sighed and tried to think. Olosse was trying to do something foolish, probably to impress their father or some boy. It wasn't just the stable hand, it couldn't have been. The scarred princess had the idea it might have been to impress the king.

_Well, that certainly didn't work out, did it?_

"Father," Linde said aloud quietly. "May I ask why I was summoned?"

"Your... _sister_ desires to have one of the geldings of the Royal Cavalry slain for the crime of biting her. What say you to this, my daughter?"

"War between the Calmarta and Mormarta is always a possibility, Olosse," Linde murmured gently to her sister. "We cannot spare any of our beasts because it offended you. Pick a different animal to ride if you do not like this one. It's as simple as that."

"And should she not be punished for her suggestion?" Morquanar demanded.

In her breast, Linde's heart froze, and then began to pound. Valar curse it, there had been a trap in this interview. She had to tread very carefully if she were going to avoid upsetting her sister or alienating her father. The princess eyed her father's face. Was that bloodlust rising in his eyes? Did he _want_ to hurt Olosse? Ever since Anarmacil's banishment - the words sent a lance of pain through her breast - the king seemed to take offense at every little thing his children did. Linde couldn't understand it. Taking a trembling breath, she tried to speak. She had to clear her throat twice before the words would come.

"No, my royal father, I do not believe punishment is necessary. Already my sister feels the weighted sting of your disapproval. What more terrible punishment could there be for a dutiful and loving daughter? None of your children wish to disappoint you, Your Majesty. Olosse understands that she has made a mistake, don't you, Olosse?"

Stricken, the other princess nodded quickly. Linde could see the beginnings of panic in her eyes.

"Very well, then, you both have leave to go. But no more abuse of my animals, Princess Olosse, or I shall punish you sorely next time, whatever your sister might say. Be gone from my audience chamber, both of you."

"But, my royal father, I wish to speak with you about my brother. Surely I have waited long enough-"

"Be gone, Mornie," the King of the _Liemuina_ growled, his voice like ice, and Linde knew she had lost this argument before it had even begun. In choosing to protect her sister from their father, she had lost yet another chance to help her twin brother find his way back to them.

The two princesses curtsied quickly, and then hastened from the room.

"What were you thinking?" Linde demanded as soon as the huge, silvery-white doors had closed firmly behind them. "You went to _Father_ with something like that? It was a _horse_, Olosse. Are you stupid? A horse isn't worth your life." The half-blind princess grabbed her younger sister's narrow shoulders and shook her. "What were you thinking? What if he hadn't listened to me? What if he had hurt you? What if he had _killed_ you? Are you mad, sister?"

Olosse started to cry, and all the anger and fear suddenly drained out of Linde.

"I just wanted Father to listen to me," the younger princess blubbered.

Morelinde sighed and pulled a handkerchief out of her sleeve, shoving it under her sister's dripping wet nose. Olosse took it and blew snot into the clean, white cambric. Ignoring the curious stares of the four guardsmen, Linde half-dragged her sister down the halls to one of the palace libraries. Darting through the doorway, the _Liemuina_ princess slammed and locked the door. Glancing between the tall, ebony bookcases, she located a cluster of velvet armchairs and plopped her sister down in one.

Olosse was still sniffling back tears.

"Listen to me, Olosse," Linde said, catching her sister's poison green eyes. Carefully kneeling in front of her, knowing she would need help getting up again, she went on, "You do not want Father to pay anymore attention to you than he does right now, understand? He is insane. You _know_ that, Mother's _told_ you. It isn't safe to catch his attention."

"I just wanted... I... but you do it."

"And what did Father ask me? He asked what punishment he should give you. How would you like to have that kind of power over the others? Over our brothers and sisters? Is that truly what you want?"

The sniveling princess shook her head.

"I'm sorry that I shook you," her sister said then, and squeezed her hands. "I was just... just getting over being very scared right then."

"You're never scared," Olosse contradicted.

Linde sighed. How could someone as paranoid and suspicious as Morquanar and as keen and observant as Queen Isilme have produced someone as obtuse as the Princess Olosse? The half-blind princess rubbed the bridge of her nose to ward off a headache. Maybe she should assign a guard to keep her sister from walking off a cliff by accident. He would have to be very ugly, or Olosse might try to seduce the poor guardsman. Perhaps Huanmor...

Her massaging fingers found the rigid scars on her face, trying to ease the prickling sensation plaguing her.

Why was she the heir? Simple: because so many of her sisters had died before she was born, and because despite her sympathy for Anarmacil, which her father deemed anathema, she was smarter than most of the remaining women in her family. Merely thinking about Olosse's encounters with mirrors, fountains, ponds, hot tea kettles, and biting horses made pain lance through Linde's temples and into her right eye. She rubbed her scars harder.

"You'll poke out your eye doing that."

Maybe she ought to make it two guards.

.

**VI**

.

Against his will, the boy fell asleep almost immediately after finishing the bowl of stew. Aragorn wondered if he should wake the lad, but perhaps the Ranger might learn something from letting him sleep. Indeed, the boy's nightmares proved educational, though the tortured moans and whispers coming from the youth tore at Aragorn's heart.

"Father, I didn't... please... _please_, Father..."

The boy twitched and jerked as if shying away from heavy blows. Rolling and thrashing in his sleep, Anar clutched at the ground, grasping handfuls of dry leaves and pine needles. He moaned and scrunched himself up into a fetal position.

"Don't hurt her... I'm sorry, please, Father..."

Tears welled up between tightly clenched eyelids and rolled down pale cheeks. The youth arched his back, muscles taut, singing with such immense tension that the Ranger wondered if he oughtn't rather wake the boy up before he snapped something. Groaning, tears pouring down his cheeks, sweat popping out on his clammy forehead, the boy wept and arched. Finally, after an eternity, he sank to the ground, exhausted.

"You didn't tell me..." He moaned, hugging himself in his sleep. In the throes of the nightmare, he'd thrown off the cloaks, and now the youth shivered despite the warmth of the night all around them. "Father, I didn't know... I'm sorry, _I didn't know..._"

"What didn't you know?" Aragorn said before he'd had time to think.

"I didn't know who she was... I'm sorry... please don't send me away... don't hurt us anymore... please, Father..."

After that, the boy went still. No more words spewed from his oblivious mouth like black poison. The Ranger watched him for about an hour more, to make sure, but there was only silence from the sleeping lad. Finally, Aragorn wrapped himself in his thin, cotton blanket and, nestled against the trunk of an oak tree with his eyes on the boy, he let sleep start to slide over him. Still, the questions revolved around his brain: what was wrong with the girl Anar dreamed of, that his father forbade them to see each other again?

Had the lad's father hurt the maid? Or had the father harmed the boy? Or perhaps both. Was that the meaning behind the dreams and the tortured words?

Aragorn slept lightly and restlessly for the few hours remaining until the faint light of dawn touched the tops of the trees. The weak beams of sunshine caressed the Man's face, but it was only when Anar's tormented screams ripped through the camp that he finally woke completely.

Sighing, troubled, the Ranger went to wake the boy from the new nightmare.

.

**VII**

.

The dawn was breaking.

With his folded arms atop the balcony railing, Carvilion watched the pale coral and vibrant orange of the sunrise begin streaking the sky. Even through the dark cloth of this blindfold, the sight before him was enough to steal his breath away and transport him back to the days when he and his twin sister had lived among the peaks of the Misty Mountains with their parents, with only the rocks and the wind and the sun and the moon.

Now, the half-ravisoron boy was trapped by threats of war within the confines of the Village. Him and his sister, Cirince. Even the thought of being caged so made him mantle his wings, the feathers spread as wide as he could get them, until the wings were nearly twice their original size and flared out wide on either side of his body. The thick, short fur covering his arms and legs stood on end as if electrified. A low growl began somewhere in his throat.

"Enough, Car," his sister murmured from the doorway, and came up to him, ducking under his outstretched wings to butt her head against his shoulder and purr, like a cat. The rumbling sound soothed him.

"I hate it here."

"So do I," Cirince replied, nuzzling her cheek against his shoulder. He could feel the harsh ridges of her skin even through the red cotton shirt he wore, but her face stroked him in just such a way that the feathery ridges of her flesh did not lock together with his. "But it is for our safety. Mother and Father didn't want to send us away."

"You could have been a great healer if we had been allowed to stay."

"We also could have been chopped up and eaten by Orcs," his twin informed him brightly, the twisted mouth curving slightly upwards in a wry smile. "Or we might have tried to fly like birdies and plummeted to our rocky and bloody deaths on the crags below."

"You are so strange," Carvilion mumbled, and put his arm around her, hugging her close to him. They rested together for a moment, Cirince purring softly, Carvilion draping one wing over her to shelter her from the cool morning air. After several moments of silence, as the dawn flushed the sky with crimson, the half-ravisoron twins grew restless.

"You're breathing my air," Cirince told her brother, pushing lightly at him. "I can't concentrate with you breathing that way."

"You're invading my sovereign space," he fired back.

"You kidnapped me and brought me here."

"You invaded my balcony," Carvilion rumbled, peeling his wing away from his twin's slight form. He adjusted his blindfold as daylight began peeping over the treetops.

"It's my room, too," she replied.

"Then it's my air."

Cirince turned to take a half-playful, half-serious swipe at him with her barely sheathed talons, but the sudden movement locked their face ridges together for a moment. In the ensuing attempt to disengage themselves from each other, she forgot to strike him. Instead, the two found themselves watching the sun peep over the trees. Blood burned against the innocent backdrop of the early morning sky. A shiver ran up Cirince's spine. Carvilion could feel it from where he stood beside her.

"What do you think happened out there?" Cirince whispered, pushing back a lock of copper hair. Behind her blindfold, her twin could not see the fear mirrored in her violet eyes, but he knew it was there. Goosebumps broke out along her arms. "Who do you think died?"

"That's just an old superstition, Cirince."

"Superstitions are based in fact, Car. A red sun in the morning, fliers take warning, for blood has been spilled this night." The half-ravisoron girl stared at the crimson streaking the sky, an unnatural stillness stealing over her. "Someone died last night. Something happened."

"Maybe Erynmir finally did us all a favor and drowned herself in the spring," Carvilion replied, and Cirince laughed.

.

**VIII**

.

They journeyed in silence. It grated on Aragorn's nerves, that silence. It was unnatural. He could feel it. There were words boiling up inside the boy, simply waiting to explode in a torrent of pain, but nothing the Ranger said or did could break through the wall of silence. Anarmacil was, it seemed to Aragorn, trapped in a tower of his own mistrust. Day by day, it wore at the lad. He could see it - the unhealthy grayness to the lad's scabbed face, the way he merely trudged when before he had moved with such fire of purpose. They rode by day - Aragorn on his blood bay, Anar on that strange stallion with the bone-gray teeth. Even the horse seemed ill at ease in his master's presence.

The second night, Anar ate nothing, merely fell asleep sitting up before the fire, propped against an ash tree. Within moments, the lad huddled in slumber beneath his thin, brown cloak.

Aragorn watched the boy sleep, studying the tears that coursed silently down the gaunt cheeks, the fear that flashed across the pale face. The Ranger didn't want to wake the boy if he didn't need to. The lad needed sleep. He was practically a ghost. In between leaving him at the edge of Hobbiton and finding him again in the forest, it was as if his very spirit had been ripped out of his body. Only at night was there any real life, during the nightmares. Aragorn was uncertain, but he had the idea that the boy needed, perhaps, a mind healer.

When the howls of grief began after only a couple hours, he went to wake Anar again and hopefully get some sleep of his own.

.

**IX**

.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Aragorn inquired carefully at dawn the next morning.

He stirred a pot of rabbit stew over the camp fire and every so often turned the five apples he had baking in the ashes and embers of the fire. The Ranger didn't know why he tried to get the lad to talk. He always said no. But if, just once, Anarmacil would open up to him and tell him about the nightmares, then maybe he could do something for the boy. Anything was better than this unnatural dance of silence and distance.

"No," Anar said.

"Are you certain?"

"Yes."

When the stew was ready, Aragorn gave the boy his bowl first. The lad ate maybe ten spoonfuls - less than a third of the bowl's contents - and nibbled on one of the baked apples, but that was all. He ate nothing else throughout the day's journey, and Aragorn thought that he could almost see the boy getting thinner and thinner as their travels continued.

.

**X**

.

"I'll feed your guts to a harpy!"

"I'll write to Mother and tell her to bring you back," the other replied. "She's been wondering where you ran off to."

"Traitor!"

Tuacso Carlothel hefted his broadsword, his blue eyes riveted on his opponent. Ignoring the jibes of the enemy opposite him, he scanned the turf around them without moving his head, intent on winning this battle. While his enemy might brand him a traitor, the Ranger did not care. His only thought was defeating his opponent. With this in mind, he glanced left and right before focusing once more on the sweaty visage of the swordsman waiting to attack him.

"Is this truly all you have?" Tuacso demanded. His scalp itched from sweat and heat, but he didn't dare scratch it. Perspiration dripped down his face, soaked his clothes. If he hadn't been wearing gloves, the blade in his hands might very well have slipped from his grip. "You swing like a maiden."

Younger, brasher, inexperienced, the young man known as Ranlang, fury rising scarlet in his cheeks, rushed his older brother with sword upraised, intent on his angry attack. Roaring his outrage at being likened to a maiden, the other Ranger brandished his silvery blade and swung it hard at Tuacso's taunting form, intent on at least bruising his hide through the leather armor.

With a nimble dodge, the older _Liemuina_ sidestepped the attack and planted his booted foot firmly in his brother's buttocks in time to administer a well-aimed shove that sent him sprawling in the dust, his ruined hand trapped beneath his chest.

"You attack like a child," Tuacso admonished, leaning on his sword. Now that he had a moment of peace, he took the opportunity to wipe away the sweat on his forehead before inspecting a blood blister under one thumbnail. "Brother, when I agreed to take you on as my apprentice, I expected you to learn something, not replace your head with a boulder and your brains with sand. Stand up and let us try this one more time."

Ranlang struggled to his feet and dusted himself off with the sleeve covering his crippled right hand, glaring at his brother. His left-handed grip on his sword tightened.

When he'd run away, following Tuacso into the wilds in search of the great lord of the _Eldar _known as Elrond Half-Elven, the youth had expected it to be as at home, where his older brother had helped him with his weaponry lessons as well as the academics that he loved so much. Instead, he'd discovered his older brother enlisted in the company known as the _Dunedain_, a Ranger corps of long-lived Men descended from the old Numenoreans out of legend. Upon hearing that Tuacso would be gone the majority of the time, off gallivanting with these Rangers of the North, Ranlang had requested permission to join up, as well. With Tuacso to speak for him, the _Liemuina_ had been granted apprenticeship in their ranks.

After more than twenty years among them, Ranlang was still an apprentice. Tuacso refused to relinquish him and allow him to become a full-fledged Ranger. The young man knew why: he was no warrior. His skills in the field were laughable, and not simply because he had to work around the handicap of a maimed dominant hand. Still, he did not want to be separated from his older brother.

"Can we take a break?" Ranlang asked piteously.

"No."

"Do you care that I am about to die?" The boy demanded, making his chin quiver. "This is torture. Have you no common decency?"

"No," Tuacso said, and raised his sword. Four gold hoops - two white, two yellow - flashed in his right ear as the firelight glanced on the metal. Each one held an emerald and a diamond. They winked and blinked in the light of the campfire. "I seem to have left my decency at home.

"Now, attack."

So Ranlang attacked, and had his backside delivered to him on the flat of his brother's sword or the bottom of his brother's boot until he was covered in sweat and grit and more than a few bruises. Eventually, he flung his sword to the ground.

"Tired of being a warrior yet?"

"Why do you keep trying to send me home?" The younger _Liemuina_ demanded.

"Because you are not a warrior. The best I could possibly hope to teach you is how to run away fast enough that you won't be eaten by wolves. Why do you persist in trying to be what you are not?" Tuacso wiped the blade of his sword before returning it to the beat up leather sheath at his side. This done, the Ranger took a seat beside the campfire the two brothers shared, drawing up his long legs so he could rest his elbows on his knees. He watched Ranlang until the flushed, sweaty youth followed his example.

They sat in silence for a long time, broken only by the cracklings of the campfire and the whistled, chirping lullabies of the nightingales and whippoorwills.

"I hate seeing anyone leave," Ranlang said finally.

"Explain."

"After you left, about two or three decades later, Linde and Anarmacil and some of the others went to this little backwater country called the Shire. You know it: we have a few little outposts there in the woods, Shore View and the other two. Apparently, the winter months had hit this place hard, and the Village mistress had a premonition of trouble, so she and the others in charge asked that we send some soldiers to prevent whatever was going to happen. So they went."

Ranlang brushed back his hair, watching Tuacso from behind his lashes. The boy hated talking about the War of the Fell Winter. It had only been a few battles for the Shirelings, but for the _Liemuina_ who had gone to their defense, the fighting had lasted the whole of the winter as the Hidden People drove the Orcs from the little country. While Tuacso had already left - along with Nirme and a handful of Ranglang's others brothers - he, Ranlang, had gone to war with those siblings that could be convinced of the danger.

It was there that Arandur, his second-eldest brother, and Erulisse, Laire, and Mavoine, his three oldest sisters had all died. It was there that Morelinde had lost her right eye and the wing-mark. He, Ranlang, had lost the use of his dominant hand. And it was there that Anarmacil had done the unthinkable.

"You can't blame yourself for 'Lisse and the others-"

"I don't," the younger _Liemuina_ said, tugging the electrum hoop in his right ear. Aquamarines tinked against tiny sapphires.

How to make Tuacso understand? He did not feel responsible, but it seemed as if everything dangerous and awful that befell his siblings came when he had let them out of his sight. Ranlang had been so severely wounded that they had sent him home before the battles had ended, and he had not been there when Linde...

"Linde does not look how you remember her, Tuacso. I told you, they ruined her face. You have not seen her. Rohwen, and Gilaran... they are broken, as well. Falquanel will never be the same. And Anarmacil is in exile, and Father has gone-"

"You worry too much."

"What?"

"Ranlang, Father has always been mad. Why do you think Nirme and I left? Why do you think the others followed? After the death of Norima, Father's sanity began to slip. As for all the bad things in the world falling down after the others have gone from your sight, that's far too pompous and self-important for someone such as you to think. Don't be foolish."

The _Liemuina_ boy sat there for a few minutes in silence, digesting his brother's words. Embers swirled in the air like burning snowflakes of fire. Then he picked up his sword in the scuffed, leather scabbard, unsheathed it, and asked, "Can I beat you into the dirt now?"

Tuacso laughed and heaved himself to his feet.

"You can certainly try. Might I suggest, after this, running away and joining some troubadours? Or taking up residence in the library?"

"If I beat you, you have to swear to stop saying stuff like this."

"All right, I swear on Father's grave."

"Father's not dead," Ranlang reminded him.

"Well, a man can dream, can't he?"

.

.

.

**Author's Note:** this fanfic is a companion piece to _Luineyende_, and the story of Anarmacil. The next five chapters or so take place between chapters 8 and 9 of _Luineyende_. This fanfic, like its companion, is an AU and a test: whether or not I can create an entirely new racial group and involve them in the War of the Ring with any skill. So far, I am doing my best. I hope you are enjoying the story so far. I realize it is a little dark, but the character of Anarmacil originated as my plot bunny whipping boy, as it were, and has since run off with my imagination.

**Mary-Sue Litmus Test Results:**

These results are for the Lord of the Rings-specific Mary Sue test, and the second score for Ranlang is from the Universal Mary-Sue Litmus Test.

Anarmacil - 14

Carvilion - 7

Cirince - 13

Hraveyar - 14

Morelinde - 14

Morquanar - 9

Ranlang - 6, -2

Talagant - 11

Tuacso - 7

0-15 - Developed character, unlikely Mary-Sue.

16-30 - Borderline Mary-Sue. Story can still be salvaged.

30+ - Mary Sue.

50 + - Rewrite. Please.

I am willing to email anyone who requests it the Litmus Tests for all the aforementioned characters.

**Sequence of Events:**

*In _the Fellowship of the Ring_, it took Frodo and the others 6 days on foot to get to Bree, and then, injured and sort-of on foot (Bill the Pony only being used to carry an injured Frodo at walking pace) it took them approximately 23 days to get to Rivendell. Since Aragorn and Anar both have horses, that cuts the time in half at least.

Also consider that the Hobbits have short legs and horses have longer strides and can obviously cover more ground.

Day 1 - Set out for Rivendell by way of Bree

Day 3 - Arrival at Bree (August 12)

**Elvish Names and Words:**

Arandur - steward (The second eldest prince, named so because he was meant to be the steward of the heir)

Carvilion - son of the red wind

Cirince - red wren

Elluine - star-river

Erulisse - sweetness of Eru

Hraveyar - flesh and blood (Elvish form of the human name Meredith)

Haunmor - dark hound

Laire - summer

Mavoine - great longing

Morelinde - night song

Morquanar - fire of blackness

Mirilhun - Blue jewels

Nairaloth - flower of the heart of the sun

Nenimir - jewels of water

Nirme - act of will

Norima - runs swiftly

Olosse - snow white

Ranlang - moon sword, moon blade

Talagant - harper, harp-player

Tuacso - flesh and blood (lit. blood and sinew)

**Concerning Earrings:**

In _Liemuina_ culture, earrings denote rank and affiliation. Every _Liemuina_ is a member of the _Calmarta_ or _Mormarta_ courts - basically, Seelie and Unseelie, light and dark. The metal and jewels that comprise each earring mean different things. Also, the number of earrings worn and in which ear they're worn have meaning as well.

The _Calmarta_ wear yellow gold, rose gold, and red gold (nobility), and brass and copper (commoners). _Mormarta_ wear white gold, _mithril_, and silver (nobility), while commoners wear sky-earth (_vilyekemen_, or fey metal) and tin. Electrum is reserved for royalty, though royals wear other metals.

To describe elemental affiliations, color-coordinating jewels are worn on the earrings: ruby or garnet for fire, sapphire or aquamarine for water, emerald or peridot for earth, and pale topaz or crystal for air. Jet, onyx, hematite, and diamond are worn by royalty to denote light and dark.

The royal guards wear two earrings, one in each ear, of the metal for which court they serve. While jewels are used, the jewels are shaped and cut to look like feathers, because the royal guards are known as Hawks, Swans, Crows, or Gulls.

At the age of six, when a child is considered old enough to learn more adult pursuits (swordplay, archery, embroidery, weaving, or any kind of trade) they are given a pair of earrings, though only one is worn at a time. When a child is considered an adult, they receive the right to wear two earrings. For those with titles or military commands, they wear a third, and for those whose innate powers manifest, a fourth is worn. The fourth earring is very rare.

An earring in the left ear means one has a trade. An earring in the right ear means one is nobility.


	3. 02 The Road to Bree Pt 2

_**At the bottom of this chapter:**_

_Author's Note_

_Mary Sue Litmus Test Results  
Elvish Names and Words_

_**Author's Note:** "atar" means father and "amillë" means mother._

.

.

**Lornarion**

**Lithuin Tindu**

**Chapter Two**

**The Road to Bree  
Part Two**

.

.

**I**

.

Two nights later, Anarmacil huddled inside his cloak, feigning sleep. He listened for Aragorn to settle himself on the opposite side of their campfire before relaxing a little. The _Liemuina_ youth shivered in the cool night air and tried to calm himself. What was he doing? Did he truly wish to journey to the Elves with this Man? Or was his own cowardice driving him away from the Shire? The idea filled him with revulsion. How could someone like him be a coward?

Yet he was running away. He didn't know what else to do, so he was running from the Village and the pain and the memories there. Sighing softly, the lad tried to think about his options.

Where would he go if he stayed in the Shire? Back to Hobbiton, with those filthy Halflings who despised him despite all that he had done for them in bygone years? He'd rather have his eyes rot from pox. Perhaps he could go back to the Village itself. But no, his father was sure to have been told of what had happened there, interfering with Elluine's execution. Morquanar would see only that his second-youngest son was harboring enemies of the state. Perhaps the King would even see a continuation of the perversion of nature that he claimed resided in Anar himself, by protecting someone like Ellie.

Ellie...

If she had the wing mark, then what the rest of the Village said of her could not possibly be true. Did she have it? And it would have to be the real mark, unmistakable in its appearance. The shadow on the skin alone would not prove her innocence. But he was almost sure that the wings themselves were there, if wings they could be called. Twisted, gnarled protrusions of bone on either side of the spine, spurs and spikes of white piercing the skin, they looked as unlike wings as anything could. Perhaps the memory of wings, or the shattered remnants of wing bones, but not wings themselves. Fragile as glass, those bones, and their presence would explain the agony Elluine had experienced every time she was laid on her back after the Villagers had tried to stone her.

But the odds of Anar being able to prove this to anyone, now that he was in deeper disgrace than he had ever been before, were slim, if they existed at all.

Absently, his fingers twitched to tug at the absent ring in his tattered ear, but he stilled them before Aragorn saw and realized he was not asleep. Aragorn was a puzzle. The Ranger confused him and hurt him, all at the same time, while still taking care of him. Anar's eyes burned every time he glanced at the Man who looked so much like Morquanar and yet treated the youth with so much more kindness. But would Aragorn still be kind when he discovered why he had been exiled? Exiled because of Naira, and the War of the Fell Winter, and the deaths of his sisters... no, Anarmacil did not think Aragorn would be so kind then.

For some reason, the thought of the Ranger rebuffing him at the discovery of his crimes made tears well up behind his closed eyelids. But they did not fall. No, Anar only wept in his sleep, when the nightmares he could hardly remember and the dreams that tortured him stripped the youth of all of his defenses.

Only then would he weep.

.

**II**

.

Again, he dreamed. He wished he wouldn't.

This dream was different, horrific and more memory than dream. Unlike the others, there was more nightmare here, tormenting and twisting the boy held captive by the night. In the darkness of the forest, lit like hell from within by verdant-devouring blazes and funeral pyres, the sky overhead burned like the flames of the eastern enemy. Anar struggled against the bonds if his nightmare. He could not relive the battles of long ago without losing himself there, in the dark and bloody past. Still, there was absolutely nothing that he could do...

"Anar, what are you _doing_ out here?"

He turned to see who yelled at him, and was shocked to catch a glimpse of Linde, her black hair once so long now inches above her shoulders. But he remembered then - her hair had caught fire in the battle before this, burned up to just beneath her ears, scalding her before she had time to shove her head in a snow bank. The white scarf over her mouth was to keep the smoke of the forest fires out of her lungs, though now it was gray with soot. Black noxiousness billowed around them both. His sister rushed to his side and grabbed his arm, careful of the burn near his elbow. Her violet eyes flashed to his face.

"Are you wounded?" She demanded. Her voice was raspy and harsh with smoke despite her scarf. A gash ran from her forehead across her bad eye, dripping blood down her soot-smudged face. Another marred her left cheek. A piece of black cloth wrapped hastily around her head kept the blood and sweat from dripping into her good eye and ruining her sight.

"No, I'm all right," he managed to gasp out. He knew where he was - the Old Forest in Buckland, the Fell Winter. As soon as the information clicked in his mind, a huge white beast leapt at him. "Linde! Behind!"

His sister spun and raised her sword. Firelight gleamed upon the silvery blade like crimson blood as it sank into the bone-white flank. Anarmacil lunged forward as the monster impaled itself on his sister's blade, and his short-sword and long knife plunged into the beast up to the hilt. Claws raked at his face, missing him by scant inches. Hot, fetid breath clogged his throat. He would've gagged, but he didn't dare with the monster so close. Yelling, his sister's war cry raised with his, they twisted their blades until the white Wolf's body gave one last convulsive wriggle and fell limp to the ground.

"_Now_ are you hurt?" Linde demanded, panting for breath, coughing on the smoke.

"No," Anar said, touching one gloved hand to his face. There was a little blood, but nothing to worry over. "It nicked me, that's all."

"Use some of the snow to clean that out, we can't have you losing your eyesight because of some infection."

"You're so paranoid," he told her, but scooped a handful of icy clean, white snow and rubbed it into his face. It stung and tingled pleasantly, and he knew that Linde had been right to tell him to clean the wound. "All done. Where's Naira?"

"I don't know. I think she's with Ranlang and Talagant."

"What's Talagant doing here?" Anar demanded.

Was this how it had happened? Had his youngest brother been in the Shire during that brutal war against the Orcs? Or had he even been born? He didn't remember. Was this the truth, or had his dreams twisted to give him fresh torment? He knew this was a dream, but still the _Liemuina_ warrior could not seem to drag himself out of the nightmare and awaken.

"What are you doing here is the question," his sister informed his acidly. "Shouldn't you be home?"

"Home?"

His twin staggered forward and began marching through the snow, trying to find one of the _Liemuina_ groups assigned to putting out the fires. Her job was to protect the protectors, not to fight as a warrior. They wanted her for her night vision. While her sight was diminished by half, the darkness still posed only minimal problems to her. Anar remembered this as he followed after her, sword and knife raised defensively, waiting for the enemy to show themselves.

"Didn't Father forbid you to come here?"

"Since when would that stop me?" He demanded, kicking snow onto a tiny blaze at the base of a beech tree. "Father's hatred holds no sway over my heart, Linde."

"Since you told Father you wanted to marry Naira and he locked her in that tower of bone-white granite."

His sister hissed the hateful words at him, and the dream shifted to something else. Now, he was back in the Royal Gardens, the stars burning cold and hard in the moonless night sky overhead. Linde stood before him, no longer ragged and raw in her armor, her hair burned short and her face a mass of scrapes and cuts. Now, his sister stood tall and proud, her one good eye focused on him, her pale sightless one entrenched in the masses of scars surrounding it. In a long gown of unrelieved black, the _Liemuina_ princess looked like some pale wraith of death.

"Where's Naira?" Anar whispered, sinking to the grass, horror stealing across his features. "What are you doing in my dream?"

"Why won't you trust the one person who can help you?"

The creature that looked like his sister demanded this of him. The youth wasn't sure if this was Linde or not. The cold light of the stars burned in her eye. Her face held the whiteness of snow, of death, of bone. Her face was like the absent moon. It filled Anar with a strange dread, and a pale ember of hope.

"I don't know what you mean," he whispered.

"The Ranger who holds you captive, he is no enemy of yours. You know this, Anarmacil Carlothel," Linde's shade growled at him.

"He would turn me away if he knew what I have done," the boy fired back, crimson fury suddenly rising within his breast. Lunging to his feet, he roared, "That's what they all did! All of them! They turned their backs on me because I fell in love with her! I had no idea who she was! No one told me! It was not my fault and they threw me away like garbage! My own parents!"

"Aragorn is not our parents," Linde said.

"But why should he be any different?"

"Why should I? Why should Nenimir and Mirilhun? What about Belthriel? Hraveyar? Not all your kin forsook you for your sins, brother. Do not be a coward. Do not turn your back on allies because you are afraid."

Tears rolled down Anar's cheeks, but he hastily wiped them away. A coward? He was a coward, wasn't he? He knew it. It was what drove him now, his cowardice. Linde was right about that. Anarmacil knew he was too much of a coward to face Aragorn's rejection. He could barely contemplate the possibility of being tossed aside like trash by the Ranger. He didn't want to think about it. There was no reason Aragorn had to know what had happened.

"They killed the child, you know," Linde's ghost hissed at him.

"There was no child."

"So much blood..."

"There was no child! There couldn't have been a child! That's impossible!"

"Alone in her tower, the scarlet of her blood spilled over, and we all knew that you had _lied_ to us, lied to us all, that you had committed such a grave sin, an abomination, Father knew, and he made sure the whole of the _Liemuina_ knew what you had done!"

"_There! Was! No! __**Child**__!_"

But nothing he said could prevent what happened next. As the young warrior howled his denial at the shade of his sister taunting him, crimson began to spill over the high walls of the Royal Gardens. First in droplets, then in dribbles, and trickles, and rivulets, and finally in great gushing rivers it came, and by the copper and meat stench of it Anarmacil knew it was blood. Fear gripped him, warring with his loathing, with his anguish, and he screamed as the blood rose above his ankles, lapping at him with agony.

"They killed the child," his sister's voice murmured. "Just as you killed Nenimir and Mirilhun."

"No!"

"Murderer..."

"Linde, you know that's not what happened!"

"Killer, kin-slayer, butcher-"

"_**ENOUGH**_!"

The furious shout did not come from Anar. It came from Naira, who parted the ever-rising sea of blood so that she came striding through it, her eyes blazing amber fire as her gaze swept over the hunched form of Anarmacil and then the haggard, thin thing that had once looked like Anar's sister.

"Be gone," Naira commanded.

And just as suddenly as the blood had begun to pour in, it vanished, and the sun began to peep over the horizon. The wraith was gone, as well. All that remained at the sunrise was Anarmacil, weeping and shaking, and Naira, holding him to her chest and singing softly in his ear.

_"Aran eänë yáressë_

_Nó Atani vantaner cemenessë_

_Túrerya né ortaina hróto lumbulë,_

_Márya né or tumbo ar taurë._

_Lassiva rierya, laiqua collarya_

_Telpië ehtaryar andë ar aicë,_

_I silmë turmaryassë né mapaina..."_

"I didn't kill them," Anar said later.

"I know," Naira whispered. "I know."

"It was Morquanar," he mumbled, half-asleep within his half-dream, half-nightmare. "He killed Mirilhun for aiding me, and one of the guards hit Nenimir with an arrow. It was not me. They asked to come."

"I know they did," she breathed against his ear. "You do not need to feel responsible for their deaths. Morquanar alone holds you accountable. His madness tells him untruths. You did no evil in this. Their blood is at peace. Feel no grief. Sleep. Do not be troubled. Do not feel responsible."

"I don't," he whispered. "I just want everyone to leave me alone, for the Valar's sake. I want _Atar _and _Amill__ë _to let me come home..."

"Shhh," she hushed him. "Don't think of your father and mother now." Naira stroked his hair and began to sing again.

_"Lassiva rierya, laiqua collarya_

_Telpië ehtaryar andë ar aicë,_

_I silmë turmaryassë né mapaina..."_

.

**III**

.

Princess Morelinde lay curled up on her side upon her bed, perusing the gray tome of the laws of the Secret People, when the message bell on its blue cord attached to the bed chimed twice. Surprised, she looked up as a servant darted into her room. The servant's back was to her, but as soon as she turned around, Linde realized it was no servant at all. At five feet exactly, with lily-white skin and one green eye, one gold, and hair like spun rubies hanging down her back, Hraveyar shut and locked the door before turning and rushing toward Linde's side.

On her hurried way, the red-haired cousin to the princess managed to trip over the doorframe, the rug, and her own feet, but she finally managed to reach her destination.

"You're not going to believe this," her cousin said without preamble.

"Let me guess, my sister singed her lips on the tea kettle again."

"Oh, you're so funny," Hraveyar murmured, sarcasm dripping from her words like poison. "But no, unfortunately not. We have more important things to worry about than Olosse, Princess of Vapid. Somehow, your father intercepted a message from some of the Village people that was meant for you, a message about your brother."

Linde sat up at once.

"Anar?"

"Yes, a _Tavari_ from the Linderyn, someone named Tauriel, sent word that Anar has left the Village and has struck out with the Black Begetting to the capital city of the Shire."

The princess felt the blood drain from her face. The Black Begetting? What was her twin thinking of, consorting with someone like that after what he had done? If Morquanar found out about this newest infraction... But then, the King of Darkness already knew, didn't he? That was what Hraveyar was trying to tell her. Anarmacil was in more trouble than he'd been in since Nenimir's death. Just the thought sent a shudder of fear up Linde's spine.

Linde shoved her hair out of her face and started massaging the mass of scars around her eye. Already she was getting a headache. Most of her free time - what little of it she possessed - was spent trying to argue for her brother's return to the Court of the Glittering Throng. And now he had made her task much more difficult. While the princess didn't know Elluine Moraelin personally, everyone knew that the creature known as the Black Begetting and the Carrion Swan was anathema, unclean. It was the reason she had been exiled from Queen Uruloce's court, and why, even in her father's courts, she was considered ill-bred and unsafe to consort with.

What had Anarmacil been thinking?

"That is not all," Hraveyar continued. "The Princess Hendulome sent for you. I ran into one of the servants blubbering, practically having hysterics because the princess spoke. I told the idiot that I would fetch you instead."

Hendulome... one of Linde's sisters, this princess was blind, and it seemed as if she had been born old. Even as a child, trapped by withered limbs in a wheeled chair, Hendulome had made known uncomfortable truths about all those around her. The only thing that saved her from Morquanar's wrath was that Queen Isilme kept her deformed child away from the king, and made certain that the mad king believed his daughter was the possessor of a broken and twisted mind and shattered body. The latter half of that, at least, was true. Rarely speaking now to anyone, for Hendulome to have summoned her... she didn't know what it meant.

"Do you know what she wants?"

Her cousin shook her head. She didn't have the faintest notion.

"Why not?" Linde demanded childishly, irritated. The princess knew it wasn't her cousin's fault, but sometimes she just wanted all the intrigue to disappear.

"Because my psychic powers seem to have mysteriously vanished overnight," Hraveyar replied, sarcasm practically exploding from her voice. "It's a common ailment. I'm surprised someone as learned as you has not heard of it."

"Blah."

"As always, each and every word from your lips is a shining pearl of wisdom."

Linde hastily got to her feet, smoothing out her rumpled skirts and snatching up her law book while Hraveyar unlocked the door. It wouldn't do for someone to know that Linde and Hraveyar were discussing the Golden Prince. The King would not be pleased by that.

Rushing through the icy halls, the two princesses made it to the suite of rooms belonging to Princess Hendulome without running into anyone except guardsmen and servants. Linde had no doubt that her father would send for her soon, and she wanted this interview with her sister over with before one of Morquanar's lackeys came to snatch the half-blind princess away to the audience chamber. It was with no little relief that the princess and her cousin slipped through one of the silvery ironwood doors that meant a child of the king resided within.

"Hendulome?" Linde called.

"Here," a raspy, croaking voice replied.

"The frog beckons," Hraveyar murmured, and Linde thwacked her on the arm.

The two princesses followed the summons through the sparsely furnished sitting room to a darkened bedchamber, dimly lit by but a few white candles. Reclining on the thick, black furs piled on her bed lay Hendulome, her withered and twisted body tucked beneath a gray blanket. Wisps of black and gray hair sprouted from her nearly bald head. In the wrinkles of her face, milky blue eyes roved the room, as if she searched for her sister with her sightless eyes.

Leaving Hraveyar at the entryway to the bedroom, Linde sat beside her frail sister on the bed and took her hand. The flesh felt thin and dry as parchment.

"Father searches the halls for his precious darkness," Hendulome rasped, and Morelinde bowed her head. "You know this, though, don't you, Mornie, half-blind darkness? And the golden child, shunned by our Father? He is sought, as well. The Carrion Swan feasts on his heart like the jewels of blue water."

"I know that already, Hendulome," Linde replied, squeezing her sister's frail, skeletal hand. The paper thin skin felt dry as flour under her touch. A wicked sharp pain zinged through her chest and up into her throat at the thought of these "jewels of blue water." A lump rose up into her throat as the pain began to fade. The princess thought bitterly, _Nenimir and Mirilhun..._ Annoyed with her own grief, the half-blind _Liemuina_ royal continued, "Tell me something new, since you've summoned me here."

"War encroaches from the East."

In the dimly lit chamber, the croaking voice of her sister made Linde shiver. Goosebumps prickled along her skin. Behind them, Hraveyar gasped. War? Somehow, the princess seated on the bed did not doubt the truth of this. A restless shadow even now spread across the land, chilling those who were in tune with Middle Earth.

Princess Hendulome continued on, her rasping words echoing like the rustling of dead leaves against old bones as she murmured, "Not this year, or the next, but soon. And when it comes, the Hidden Ones can remain hidden no longer. But the King of Darkness does not see this truth. He will not see this. When the time comes, it will be the darkness that rides forth to do battle with the darkness. You will lead our people onward to the slaughter, and the crimson blood of the Hidden People will flow like the darkness of oncoming night."

Closing both eyes against the idea, Linde pressed her fingers to the ridge of scar that bled across her face, massaging it. She seemed to be doing that oftener and oftener these days. She tried to think about her sister's words. She would lead the Hidden People to the slaughter? What did that mean? That she would galvanize the _Liemuina_ to ride to war? Or that she would betray her people to the enemy that came from the East?

"The walls must fall," Hendulome muttered, and the half-blind princess wrenched herself out of her thoughts. "The walls of Middle Earth must fall if the enemy is to die. You must bring down the walls with your double-edged sword. There will be blood, but that is the price of victory."

"What is she talking about?" Her cousin demanded from the doorway.

"What makes you think I know?"

"With all the time you have spent poring over all those ancient history texts and law books, if you have not learned how to decipher cryptic words by now, then you've been wasting your time."

Exasperated, Linde shushed her.

"Do you mean me, Hendulome?" She asked. "Or just the _Liemuina_?"

"All of Middle Earth must bring down the walls," she mumbled. "The walls make us weak. They must crumble into dust if we are to survive. The East conquers by dividing us, making the strong to become weak. The blood will turn the fields to mud, and only bones will grow there. The earth will scream under the onslaught of our enemies."

Linde's blood turned to ice in her veins. "I don't understand."

"Nor will you, for one is always blind in the depths of darkness. Your cowardice churns in your belly and blinds you to the evils of the dark fires. But the walls will fall if those who fight remain true. Will you be true?"

Pressing against the fleshy scars on her face as if trying to push her headache away, Morelinde sighed and tried to think. As per usual, her sister's words were indecipherable. It was generally only after the fact that the disjointed mumblings that Hendulome uttered were broken down and figured out and the events they concerned always turned out as she said. It rarely, if ever, helped anyone in the process of bringing those events about. Linde doubted there was any real point in trying to unscramble her sister's words. Still, her curiosity nagged at her, demanding she try to understand.

One of the scented candles - sage, if Linde wasn't mistaken - guttered in a sudden gust of air, and the princess sneezed loudly when the smell hit her nose. Though only mildly irritating alone, sage mixed with several other herbs - including common garden parsley - was toxic to the _Liemuina_. But the herb also induced wisdom and a clear head, which might explain why Hendulome had sage candles in her room. After all, with the poisoning of the Queen while the princess was in the womb, Linde doubted she worried overmuch about poisonous herbs, unlike most of the Hidden Ones.

"_Atar_ is here," Hendulome whispered.

Fear skittered up the other princess's spine, but she hastily composed her face and turned as Morquanar's gargantuan frame filled the small entryway of the chamber. Her father's craggy visage was calm, filled with a tranquility that the princess could not help but find eerie, even slightly frightening. If the king had heard the message concerning Anarmacil, then he ought to be raving mad with his fury.

So... why wasn't he?

"Your Majesty," Linde murmured demurely, rising so that she could curtsy. Pain shot up her leg from her bad knee, but she didn't let it throw her. She hadn't realized how chilly her sister's room was. The cold had seeped into her bad leg, stiffening it up.

"Princess Mornie," Morquanar said in his heavy voice, like a rockslide. "Princess Hendulome, Princess Hraveyar."

"Your Majesty," Hraveyar mumbled, dipping into a curtsy as well.

"Mornie, I request you attend me in my dining hall," the king said.

The princess found herself nodding, wishing she did not have to. Any audience in the dining hall meant that her father was going to force her to eat with him. Would the king poison her? Linde felt horrible for even entertaining such an idea, but the threat remained, whether she willed it or no. With her brother's new crimes so fresh, her father's madness made assassination a deadly and very real possibility.

"Come, I shall escort you myself," His Majesty added, taking his daughter's slim hand in his and tucking it in the crook of his arm. With barely a nod to Hraveyar and Hendulome, Morquanar left the room, with Linde trailing behind him, having to walk double-time to keep up with her father's massive strides.

.

**IV**

.

Aragorn jolted awake, surprised that he had slept. This time, there was no screaming. There was only soft, tormented weeping. The Ranger watched as Anar shuddered, hunched in on himself within the wrappings of his worn, brown cloak. The youth's sobs echoed off the trunks of the trees until the sun began to peek over their leafy tops. Only then did he grow quiet.

"Do you want to talk about it?" Aragorn asked quietly.

The boy wiped his sweaty, tear-stained face with his shirtsleeve and watched Aragorn through watery eyes bleary from sleep. He wasn't sure, but his eyes told him that there was a plea hidden in the Ranger's face. As if all he wanted was for the youth to confide in him. But the _Liemuina_ boy was not - nay, _could_ _not_ _be_ - certain.

"No truths that you hide would ever make me turn against you, Anar," the Ranger told him gently. His gray eyes were soft and patient.

"I... I..."

Aragorn said nothing, only waited.

"I can't," the boy whispered.

The Ranger sighed.

"Whenever you're ready, then. Come, Anar. Dawn approaches. I would have you actually eat something today, before you turn into a hollow shell of a boy and I am forced to find another potential apprentice."

"Are you jesting? I'm such a delicate creature," Anarmacil murmured, smiling a little. "All I need is some nectar and a few slices of honeydew."

Aragorn smiled, too, more out of relief than humor.

The boy was not so far gone as he had thought if he could still crack jokes.

.

**V**

.

The walk to the dining hall was silent. Morelinde was left with her frightened thoughts as she and the king marched down the vast corridors. Would her father remember that she had gone to visit Anarmacil only a few decades ago? She had had his permission, but now he might think she had gone to plot with her twin. Was she about to lose her position as heir? If so, if her father felt threatened enough to demote her and raise up one of her sisters - not Olosse, please, Mandos, Lord of Judgment - then Morelinde knew that she was probably only moments from execution. Cold sweat popped out on her forehead.

When the guardsmen at the ironwood doors to the dining hall thrust the entryway open for their king, Morquanar finally broke the heavy silence.

"My dearest daughter, I have received news of your twin brother."

His voice was steady and cool, without inflection. He might have been commenting on the weather. The very serenity of her father's tone made a shiver trip surreptitiously up and down her spine. Linde bit the inside of her cheek and resisted the urge to touch her face. The headache that had only been a slight pain behind some pressure before was now shoving its way into the foreground. Now the hot pain was lancing through her temples and behind her eyes.

"What news is this, sire?"

"Anarmacil has broken the terms of his exile. I should have expected it. He was not... normal, even before his banishment. He was not like you, Mornie."

She looked down, watching the hem of her dress flutter over the stone floor. There was nothing wrong with her brother! He had only made a mistake! No one had told him Naira's identity. Even she, the heir to the throne, had not known the truth. It had not been his fault.

"It seems he has allied himself with the Carrion Swan," her father continued. "Lunecua has been informed of the events which have transpired. She is most unhappy. As for Anarmacil... he has taken the Carrion Swan out of the Village and into the forests surrounding."

As he spoke, Morquanar graciously seated his daughter not at the long banquet table that took up most of the length of the room, but at the small, personal table that stood on the dais, which already lay set for two. The king sat across from her and took a sip of the sparkling white cider in a silver cup. Now that Morquanar had tasted of his own drink, she was free to follow suit. Linde sipped daintily from her own cup, swirling the tiny mouthful around to see if she could detect any poisons. When her tongue caught nothing, she swallowed.

"Soldiers of the Shire then took the Black Begetting and the Golden Prince to the capital of the Shire, where our enemies, the Hobbits, have imprisoned them both."

"Imprisoned?" Linde echoed, surprised. This was not at all how she had expected this conversation to go. Setting down her cup, she cocked her head, the better to see her father with her good eye. "By the Hobbits?"

"Aye, daughter," the king growled, stabbing viciously at a piece of roast swan with his fork. After putting the meat in his mouth, chewing vigorously, and swallowing, he went on, "While Anarmacil is an exile and shall always remain so, he is still my son, no matter how I wish it otherwise. Though he is a stain upon my honor and my kingship, I must do something about this. The Halflings wish to kidnap and imprison a prince of the _Liemuina_, as well as the offspring of one of my most trusted guards. I must respond. Therefore, I have decided that war is our only option."

Unfortunately, at almost this precise moment Morelinde had taken her own bite of roast swan. At her father's declaration, she proceeded to choke on it. When she'd finally cleared her airway enough that she could stop coughing, she managed to croak, "_War_?"

"Do you not agree?" The king inquired, chewing a bite of swan. "They have kidnapped your twin brother. I would think warring on the filthy creatures would appeal to you."

Linde thought frantically, trying to see a way out of a full-scale slaughter of the Shirelings. If the Hidden People went to the Shire to make war, the Halflings would be wiped out. Death would fall upon the Halflings like the scythe among the grain, cutting through the threads of their lives in a series of swift and bloody battles. War was not an option as far as Linde saw it. Even though the Hobbits were simple and quiet folk, if the _Liemuina_ went to war against the _Perianath_, even some of the Hidden would die. All for something that Morelinde didn't think was entirely true. But how to change the king's opinion?

"If we go to war with them, Father, some of our people will die in battle."

"That is war," the king informed her succinctly, wolfing down the steaming meat. "You of all people should understand that, my daughter." He gestured to her ruined face. "After the Halflings have betrayed you and the family of Carlothel-"

"Your Majesty, who sent the message of Anarmacil's fate?" Linde asked, wondering if her cousin's information had been correct.

"A wood sprite, a dryad named Tauriel."

"What of the Village Mistress, Nimrohwen?"

"We have received no word from the mistress of the Village," Morquanar informed his daughter. "While Nimrohwen has been a loyal servant to us in the past, it seems as if she is now remiss in her communications with us."

At her father's usage of the royal "we," Linde sat up a little straighter and tried to ignore the pain in her head. The king was putting emotional distance between himself and his daughter now. She didn't know why he was doing so, but it made her nervous nonetheless. Wary now, eying him as best she could while still nibbling daintily on her meal of roast swan and fresh, white bread, the princess took a sip of her cider to give herself time to think and then spoke.

"I think... I think the information might be faulty, my lord," she murmured slowly. "If Nimrohwen has given us no word, perhaps there is some discrepancy in the facts as they stand. We have been given no cause to doubt the Village elders and doing so may prove unwise at this point."

"You do not think the Halflings have kidnapped your brother?"

"I do not yet dare to theorize on the Golden Prince's freedom or captivity," she said. "There is not enough pertinent information for a mere princess to judge the truth. If, as you say, the Shirelings have snatched him up for ransom or imprisonment, then it is within my king's purview to raise up arms against them. But if the prince is not a captive, and we butcher the Hobbits... we will be the ones forsworn."

Her heart in her mouth, Linde waited for her father to pass judgment on her words. Would he find them treasonous? Or wise? It was the question she asked herself every time she spoke to the King of the _Liemuina_. In his madness, the king could take even the most innocent statement and twist it into machinations for his death or deposition. With a topic as volatile as Anarmacil, whom Morquanar both loved and hated, and mixing it with such peoples as the Shirelings as well as Elluine Moraelin, the Black Begetting, Morelinde could not be sure that the words spoken here would not bring a death sentence down on her head.

Morquanar threw back his head and laughed, hardy guffaws that shook his entire massive frame in the silver and ebony chair. His eyes were swallowed up in the crevices of his face as he roared a booming laugh. The laughter rumbled in his chest and poured out, nearly shaking the room apart. Linde's teeth rattled.

Why was he laughing?

"Indeed, my daughter is wise beyond her centuries," the king boomed, and Linde had to fight back the sob of relief rising in her throat. "Tell me more, Princess Mornie. Speak of what I should then do instead of warring with the filthy Shire rats."

The princess dragged her suddenly scattered wits back inside her skull and thought. She sipped her cider, took a few bites of the soft bread, and finished off the swan breast on her silver plate. Wiping her fingers on a cloth, the half-blind _Liemuina_ struggled to find the words. It was always a battle to capture the proper words that would reach Morquanar and then a bigger struggle to keep them in her head long enough to get them out into the air. Sometimes she won, and sometimes she lost.

Absently, she tugged on the white gold hoop in her right ear, making the small diamonds jingle against the warm metal. Her fingers counted the three tiny beads of jet between the diamonds, and then jumped to the second earring, electrum with crystals and topaz gems. The ridges and planes of the jewels helped her to think.

"Well?" The king growled, his voice tinged with impatience. "What say you, Mornie?"

"I say..." Linde trailed off, trying to fight off the rising panic. What _should_ she say? As the blood drained from her face, she cast about frantically for an idea and hit upon something almost immediately. It was not a satisfactory solution, but it was better than nothing. "Perhaps my lord would send an envoy, a group of men whose mission it was to discover the whereabouts of my disgraced brother and the Carrion Swan, and to uncover the truth of how they managed to come to where they are."

"An envoy?"

"Yes, sire."

"They would have to be some of my most trusted soldiers," Morquanar murmured after a small silence. "Anarmacil might corrupt lesser of the _marta_ with his obscene inclinations." At this, Linde winced inwardly but said nothing. "Perhaps Prince Falquanel and Prince Callo, for they are not easily swayed to follow evil paths. Those two, leading a small company..."

"My royal father, if I may make a suggestion?" Linde asked, trying not to choke on the lump of cold fear suddenly lodged in her throat.

The king's steely eyes locked on her face and she swallowed before continuing.

"Send myself along with Falquanel, Callo, and perhaps Fanya. While the three princes are without equal in battle and in the wilds, I too know how to defend myself, having ridden to war twice in my lifetime. Not only that, but the Golden Prince trusts me. If he is in hiding or an otherwise unorthodox position, I may be able to coax him into the open. Send me, my father, and I will be a trustworthy emissary for you."

The king stared at his daughter for a long, long time, weighing, considering, pondering. In her seat, the princess desperately tried to hold her father's gaze and not fidget, even though a dull ache had settled in her bad knee and her scars had begun to itch badly. Instead of scratching, she sat on her hands and waited. Finally, the _Liemuina_ royal spoke.

"I will consider your words, my daughter. Until then, leave me. I wish to be alone, to consider what actions I may be required to take."

"Sire," she murmured, and rising to curtsy, hastened from the room, trying not to feel too much as if she were running away from the monster's den.

.

**VI**

.

"I thought we were going to Rivendell," the lad said the next day.

"We are," said the Ranger. "We stop here first."

"And where _is_ here?"

"The town of Bree," he replied. "In this place, they call me Strider. If you cannot remember this, then refer to me simply as Longshanks. My true name is not to be spoken in communal settings such as this."

"Strider, eh? I think I'll stick with Master Longshanks."

It was the first sign of life Aragorn had gotten from the boy in the three days they'd been on the road, and it lifted his heart immensely. The Ranger was actually surprised by the weight that lifted from his shoulders. He'd been more worried about the lad than he had himself thought. With a quick word in Quenya to the gelding, he brought his horse to a halt and stood staring down the slope of the wooded hills, watching the hustle and bustle of Bree preparing for twilight.

On the stallion Ambarone - _Sunrise, how strange,_ Aragorn thought, looking at the black blaze descending on the horse's broad, dun-colored nose, like the oncoming dusk - Anarmacil drew abreast with him and sighed.

"A city," the lad muttered. "Or a town, at any rate. I hate towns."

"Oh?"

"Villages and towns and cities are all the same: full of rage and pain and hate, full of people ready to condemn others to banishment or death. They're all so ready to damn those who are different from them, ready to judge harshest the mistakes they deem sinful and unholy." The pain had returned to the lad's voice. His words trembled with agony that burned Aragorn even from where he sat astride Ronyo. Furrowing his brows, the Ranger turned to Anar, who's face was the color of bleached bone as he glared down at Bree. "I wish the place would burn to the ground."

"Anarmacil!"

Aragorn's voice held a whiplash rebuke, and the boy flushed and jerked his head toward the Ranger. For a long moment - a quiet, swift eternity - gray eyes like steel clashed with eyes like the summer night flecked with golden stars. Aragorn's belly clenched at the hatred and anguish smoldering behind the boy's eyes, and he saw that though the lad spoke in anger, there was no intent to do harm from him. He would never hurt innocent people.

Still, such talk was immoral, inhuman, and cowardly, and the Ranger informed the boy of this in acid tones that brooked no argument and left Anar's ears burning red.

"Who do you think you are?" The lad demanded when Aragorn had finished.

"Someone who is doing his best to help you," he replied. "Come. You need new clothes, and Bree is the nearest place to get such. We'll only be here a few days, so do not vex yourself with the condemnations of the townsfolk. They will not bite," the Ranger added, and was shocked to hear Anar laugh a little.

"Even if they did," the youth said, reaching up to tug his tattered right ear, "I learned from my sister how to bite harder."

"Your sister?" Aragorn inquired, voice neutral. Anar had only mentioned his family once, in a voice tight with sorrow, and the conversation had been short and painful. Yet now, there was wry affection and humor in the lad's voice. Which sister, then, was this?

"Linde," Anar said. "My twin. She of the sharp teeth and mean right hook."

Aragorn said nothing, and the boy ventured no further comment, so the Ranger whickered to his horse and they began their trek down the hills and out of the forest, towards the human town of Bree and the inn of the Prancing Pony, there to harvest news of the world and to purchase new clothes for the lad whom Aragorn hoped to make his apprentice.

.

.

.

**Author's Note:** while originally one chapter, the Road to Bree ended up being over 15000 words long, so I could not leave it whole. I tried to find a good stopping point in the middle and break it in half. I hope the flow of the story was not disrupted.

Anyway, please review so that I can know how well I'm doing. Thanks!

**Mary-Sue Litmus Test Results:**

This if for the Lord of the Rings Centric Mary-Sue Litmus Test.

Hendulome - 8

0-15 - Developed character, unlikely Mary-Sue.

16-30 - Borderline Mary-Sue. Story can still be salvaged.

30+ - Mary Sue.

50 + - Rewrite. Please.

**Names and Words in Elvish:**

Callo - hero, noble man

Falquanel - sword of the stars

Fanya - cloud

Hendulome - eyes of the night

Isilme - moonlight

Linderyn - Forests of Songs

Lunecua - blue dove

Marta - fey or fated (the Fated is a collective term for the Liemuina)

Mirilhun - Blue jewels

Nairaloth - flower of the heart of the sun

Nimrohwen - Lady of white horses

Perianath - Halflings

Ronyo - Hound of Chase (Aragorn's horse)

Tauriel - bastardization that means wood-maiden or forest-maiden

Uruloce – fire-dragon (am appropriate name for Anarmacil's aunt)


	4. 03 The Prancing Pony Pt 1

**At the bottom of this chapter:**

_Elvish Words and Names_

_Liemuina Military Structure_

.

**Lornarion**

**Lithuin Tindu**

**Chapter Three  
The Prancing Pony**

**Part One**

.

.

**I**

.

"Are you sure he's coming?" Ranlang asked wearily, dropping his battered body down to the dust. Panting for breath, the _Liemuina_ youth glanced over at Tuacso, who sat beside the campfire, sharpening his hunting knife. The younger Ranger stared at the huge blade, wishing he knew enough to use it. It ran from Tuacso's fingertips the length of his forearm, the blade etched with a blessing from their mother, the hilt engraved with the crest of their family - a red rose with a seven-pointed silver star in its heart, on a rayed field of black and cream enamel edged in silver. Ranlang watched his brother for a few minutes. When no reply for his question was forthcoming, he asked, "Tuacso? Are you sure-"

"Hirraumo will come," the Ranger told his brother and apprentice. "See that?" He pointed to the sky over the meadow on whose edge they camped. Heavy clouds hung, and in the distance, sheets of rain hammered the thirsty ground. "A storm, and if I know Hirraumo, he will come on the edge of it, dripping rain."

As if to prove his words, the sound of thundering hoof beats touched their ears, and a Ranger galloped into view across the meadow. Silvery white hair streaming out behind him, the wild man raced his slate-gray stallion against the whistling wind. As he drew near, the cold stars overhead glinted off the stormy gray eyes and the delicately pointed ears. Five earrings gleamed in each of his ears. When he was at the edge of their camp, Ranlang saw that they were silver, white gold, _mithril_, _vilyekemen_, and yellow gold, and that they hung with cubic zirconia, yellow topaz, blue and white sapphires, amber and aquamarines, all shaped to look like feathers.

Hirraumo dismounted and tethered his horse. The beast nuzzled the man's shoulder before lowering his head to eat some grass. The Ranger nodded to Ranlang and Tuacso and sat before the fire. As predicted, his hair was now plastered to his pointed face by water so that only the tips of his ears poked through. Raindrops sprinkled his face and rolled down his forehead.

"Give Mistral a rubdown, Ranlang," Tuacso ordered quietly.

Without questioning his brother, the youth got to his feet and went to tend the hungry stallion. Surreptitiously watching the newly arrived Ranger from behind the shield of the horse, Mistral, Ranlang spied on the two older Rangers as they conferred beside the warmth of the campfire. Hirraumo's stormy gray eyes flickered often to the flames, and his hands stretched up to touch the silver ring on a chain around his neck. From experience and stories, the boy knew that that ring was etched with an image of a dove on either side of the oval-cut blue stone set in the metal. It was the ring that meant the Ranger was spoken for, married. Ranlang knew it wasn't true, but he said nothing about it to the other _Liemuina_.

"How long before the Hidden begin to expand again?" Tuacso asked, his voice as soft as the wind through the trees. "Will another outpost be coming soon?"

Hirraumo shook his head.

"I doubt it," he said. "Lunecua wrote to me that Morquanar is becoming more and more unstable. The governance of the _Mormarta_ is left mostly to the Heir of Shadows and the Heir of Light. From what my wife says, your sister Mornie is a fair and decent sovereign, and the people love her. She will be a good queen. So far, she shows no signs of encouraging expansion of any kind. You'll recall she made a visit to the Village a few decades ago? I don't think she liked what she saw.

"As for Envinyatar... your aunt is unhappy with him, or so I've been told. She says he isn't ruling-minded enough."

"Uruloce is quite mad, and Envin wants nothing to do with her politics and machinations," the other muttered, scratching at the stubble shadowing his jaw. Warmth softened his eyes - Ranlang could see it in the light of the fire. The younger boy knew what Tuacso was thinking about: Envin, his silver-rimmed spectacles perched on his long, beaky nose, poring through old texts and scrolls alongside Morelinde in one of the private palace libraries. It was how both heirs spent much of their free time since Anarmacil's banishment. Ranlang also noticed that his brother made no comment on the status of Lunecua as Hirraumo's wife. Brown eyes staring off into space, Tuacso mumbled something unintelligible, then shook himself and asked, "How is Mo- I mean, how is the Queen?"

Ranlang pricked up his ears and listened hard to what the _Vilmarta_ Ranger might say of Isilme.

"Your _mother_ is well. Lunecua heard from Arvil that the queen is again with child, and the prospects of survival look well, as long as she can keep it a secret from Nahame and his cronies. Uruloce does not know, but what intelligence has found its way to Morquanar, even my wife knows not. There _is _the usual plotting by boot-lickers such as Nahame, but even the King can see through their treacherous currying. The king of the griffins has thrown his lot in with the Queen, so the _ravisoron_ will aid the _Mormarta_ if anything should happen."

"What of Gwaihir and the Eagles?" Tuacso asked.

"As to our more tame kindred - the _Beornings_ and the Eagles- all I know is this: Grimbeorn insists that he and the rest of the Black Bears be kept at a distance, out of all the politicking and fighting. They insist on remaining neutral and only if those conditions are met will they continue to trade with the Hidden. Lady Beornhilde of the White Beornings will throw her lot in with Ceuranar's family, you know that."

The other Ranger, tugging absently on the diamond and gold hoop in his right ear, nodded. It was as he had expected. Grimbeorn was no fool, and the prince was certain that Lady Goldberry had made sure the word was spread among the _Liemuina _who belonged neither to Morquanar nor Uruloce that things among the _Mormarta_ and _Calmarta_ were coming to a head, that war would come sometime in the next thirty or so years – by _Liemuina_ standards, very soon. With Uruloce's madness rising every day to new, bloody heights and Morquanar's insanity rendering him further and further from the real world, none of the Hidden Ones scattered across Middle Earth were foolish enough to ignore the powder keg. As for Beornhilde... the queen of the White Bears had once loved the previous Heir of Light, Ceuranar, before his death in the War of the Fell Winter. Ceuranar had been his father's favorite at one point, before Mavoine's birth – the dead princess had been named "great longing" for a reason – and Lady Beornhilde knew that.

"Gwaihir will have none of our machinations," Hirraumo continued. "But the gryphon king says otherwise, for Morquanar has officially adopted Lady Alianne, Lady Nuala, and Lady Liadan and declared them to be _ravisoron_."

"Father did that?" Ranlang exclaimed. He ignored his brother rolling his eyes heavenward. "But those three are human! Maybe he's not so far gone as we thought, Tuacso."

But Tuacso waved his younger brother to silence and indicated for the other Ranger to continue speaking.

"Apparently, Lady Nuala saved Prince Talagant the year before last, and out of gratitude the King swore to grant her any wish her heart might desire. You know that the fact that King Carnar and his two wing-brothers took human wives has always been a bone of contention between the Courts and the _ravisoron_. But now it seems that all is forgiven.

"All this I learned from a dispatch sent from the capital to Mistress Nimrohwen of the Village. The _Wilwarinath_ look upon the _Dunedain_ with a kind if condescending but affectionate eye, and they know that my daughter is in that village, so they show me what messages they can. Apparently, Lady Alianne's two children, Carvilion and Cirince, are also in the Village."

"The mixed-bloods with the skin disease?" Ranlang said. His disgust was mirrored on his face. "That skin is vile-"

"Sometimes I have to wonder how an elect lady like my mother gave birth to a son with rocks between his ears," Tuacso muttered just loud enough that Ranlang heard him, and then louder he added, "Shut up."

Hirraumo sighed and brushed his sopping wet hair off of his neck. "That is all my news. And you? What news do you bring about the Shirelings? How is my daughter?"

"We have heard nothing unusual, at least as of yet. I am sure she is well."

Hirraumo glanced over his shoulder, out into the darkness. His earrings clinked lightly. While his eyes were always stormy, the troubled expression on his face was unusual. Normally thunderously angry or almost _Hobbit_-ly cheerful, concern was a foreigner to his countenance. Tuacso saw the frown turning down the other man's mouth, even through his silvery half-beard, and reached out to grip his shoulder.

"You know that she and my little brother are good friends. If any danger were to come near, Anarmacil would protect her."

The _Vilmarta_ turned his gray eyes to the prince in front of him and tried to smile. If only Elluine were like her siblings. Arvil and Sinda and the others could most certainly take care of themselves, but Elluine... she had not had the time to learn much in the way of the warrior. She had been too young - barely thirty – when he and Lunecua were called back into service as a Swan and a Corbie. The attacks on Elluine had come too often and been far too devastating to really devote any time to training. She had always been in some state of injury - broken arms, broken ribs, cracked skull. And she was slow and delicate, the wing mark slowing her down considerably and giving her enemies a brutal advantage... not a good combination for someone like her, someone of suspicious bloodline.

But Prince Tuacso was trying to cheer his spirits, and Hirraumo was grateful. Out of all of the _Dunedain_, only the _Liemuina_ hidden among their ranks understood the _Vilmarta's_ fear for his youngest daughter. In point of fact, they were the only ones who even knew that he _had_ a daughter. Out of habit more than anything, he kept Elluine a secret from those who did not already know of her existence.

"Our Captain will be here in an hour, perhaps two," the _Vilmarta_ told the other two _Liemuina_. "I rode on ahead to inform you. Both of you are to return to the camps around _Imladris_, though Captain Halbarad has requested that you both stop through Bree on your way. Aragorn is there, at the inn of the Prancing Pony."

"Is he in any danger?" Ranlang blurted, but then shut his mouth tight. He was supposed to be taking care of Mistral, not blabbing like a first-year apprentice.

Hirraumo glanced at him before saying, "No, he is in no danger that I know of. But he travels with one of the Hidden, a youth from the Village who until recently had been the escort of a Village maiden, and Halbarad wants the two of you to take a closer look at Aragorn's companion while he's in the area."

"Well," Tuacso said, stowing his whet stone, sheathing his knife, and heaving himself to his feet. "If that is what our Captain wishes, then that is what we shall do. Prince Rock Head," he added to his brother. "Are you finished with Mistral? Good. Saddle Roime and Carcane and to Bree we will go."

Ranlang obeyed.

.

**II**

.

"Argh!"

"Don't get too close," Anarmacil informed the stable boy, who was cradling his forearm to his chest. A smattering of blood was soaking into the homespun wool sleeve. Inserting himself between the stable hand and the snorting, pawing stallion, the _Liemuina _rolled the boy's sleeve up to inspect the bite. A shallow gash marred the dirty skin. Sighing, Anar said, "Go and wash that out with clean water from the pump. It barely broke the skin, but a horse's mouth is hardly a clean place. And from now on, don't go near him. Don't worry, I'll inform your master. I'll take care of him."

"Thank you, sir," the boy mumbled, tugging a dirty blond forelock and lowering his mud brown eyes.

"Ugh, do not call me that. I'm Anar. Just," he said, holding up a hand in forewarning. "Anar. No 'master,' no 'sir,' nothing of the kind. I shall inform your master of that as well. Your name?"

"Robin, sir. Er... Rob, I mean."

"You might want to wash out that bite, Rob. I think it's starting to turn green."

The boy dashed away, and Anarmacil found himself face to face with a smirking Aragorn. He couldn't have ignored that humongous grin if he'd been blind. "What?" He tried not to sound churlish.

"As I thought," the Ranger replied, grinning still wider.

"_What_?"

"There is a heart in that chest, after all."

"Do not be ridiculous," half-growled Anarmacil at the Ranger. Then he unsaddled his horse and deposited the tack in its place. Picking up a brush, he began running the bristles through Ambarone's dirty coat, trying to remove the wear of the road from the pale gold hair. The stallion nuzzled his shoulder. "No one tends my horse but me. My father... my father taught me that. Your beast is your responsibility, he said."

"It seems to me as if at one point, you and your father were very close," Aragorn murmured, trying to keep the tone of the conversation light.

"We were," Anar mumbled as clouds of road dust puffed from Ambarone's body. When no more dirt appeared, he switched to a comb to remove the tangles from the horse's mane and tail.

"I was one of the favorites," Anarmacil continued as he struggled to untangle a particularly complex knot. "Oh, he loved Ceuranar better, but that was because he was the eldest of us all, and he was on his way to making an alliance with Lady Beornhilde. Arandur, he was second oldest, was always obedient, too. My sister Norima was father's heir because Ceuranar didn't have what it took to rule the _Mormarta_. He was so... so light-fated. It showed when he tried to marry a White Beorning. Father used to say I took after him," the boy added, smiling a little. "Ceuranar was supposed to be my aunt Uruloce's heir... but he died in the war, along with Arandur."

The faces of the dead flashed through his mind: Ceuranar, Arandur, Norima, Erulisse, Laire, Mavoine... those kin he lost in the War of the Fell Winter. And after... Nenimir and Mirilhun, their blood a stain on the hands of their father. Anarmacil clenched his fist until the sides of the comb bit into his palm. When he was certain his voice wouldn't shake, he continued.

"I had three sisters after Norima, and my father just doted on them," he said, and he laughed a little, though the sound was high and strained, with an undercurrent of wildness. Aragorn fought a shudder. "Erulisse was as gentle as the spring sun and so pretty. So many noblemen wanted to marry her but Father wouldn't part with her so early. She was... young, among our kind, to marry. And unlike my younger sister Olosse, Erulisse actually had a brain in her head." At Aragorn's puzzled look, the youth added, "Olosse has managed to nearly drown herself trying to kiss her own reflection more times than I could possibly count. Linde despairs of her, because if anything happens to Linde, Olosse will be the next heir of the _Mormarta,_ unless my father takes more than a passing interest in his daughters and appoints Wennolë_. _She's fourth eldest. h

"Give me the order," Aragorn said, trying to keep the names straight.

"Of my living sisters, first is Linde, my twin. Then Olosse, who many call Lady Vapid. Then Tintanie, but she doesn't have a head for ruling anything other than a forge. She's a marvel with a hammer and tongs, though. Then there's Wennolë, who's nearly as good at Linde's job as Linde. When my twin would visit me, she'd usually ask our father to put Wennolë in charge.

"As for my dead sisters... Norima, Erulisse, Laire, and Mavoine are older than Linde. Nenimir and Mirilhun are younger.

"My older sister Laire shared a beautiful garden with our mother and she could make anything grow, it seemed, just by singing to it. She was no warrior, but she was brave as any soldier. She died in the war, too, but before that, she saved my twin sister Linde from death. Laire knew a lot about the healing properties of herbs and plants and things like that. When... when Linde was... hurt, Laire helped Nairaloth take care of her.

"Then there was my sister Mavoine. My father named her 'great longing' because finally, here was a daughter who looked like him. She was the only one of my sisters to be born with gray eyes. And the name suited her, I think. She put so much towards the things she wanted. She was full of 'great longing.' Her biggest wish was for my father and my aunt to be at peace with each other. After the war, and after Norima died, it seemed as if Mavoine would get her wish... and then her war wounds proved too much and we lost her before my father and Aunt Uruloce reconciled."

"How many family members did you lose in this... this war?"

"Six," Anarmacil murmured. "Ceuranar, Arandur, Erulisse, Laire, Mavoine and Nimmorel. Three brothers, and three sisters. Norima died just before the war began.

"And many of my siblings were permanently injured. Linde was blinded and her face ruined by hot steel. My younger brother Ranlang has a crippled hand. It took him a long time to learn to do everything left-handed. My older brother, Falquanel, was tortured. His mind has never been entirely right since then. Olosse and Linde have had a good influence on him, but it's obvious that he is a broken man. My brother Gilaran's face is... a ruin, and his twin, my sister Rohwen... Once my sister had the most beautiful voice, but something happened... something... she told Gilaran, but he would never say anything. All we knew was that her voice was gone, the healers said forever."

The _Liemuina_ put the comb away and went to look for a bag of oats and a pitchfork to levy some hay out of the loft for his stallion. For a long time, there was silence, broken only by Anarmacil grunting with the effort of forking the hay. When Ambarone was comfortable, the boy turned to Aragorn.

"And I won this scar in the war, too," the boy added as if there had been no break in the conversation, indicating the thick ridge of scar slashing across his face. "Nairaloth said it made me look rakish and daring," he said, grinning. "A true hero, she told me."

"Is Nairaloth one of your sisters?"

The stricken look Anarmacil flashed toward the Ranger startled him with its intensity. But immediately any telling expressions drained from the boy's pale countenance and all he that said was, "No. No, she... Naira is... Naira is my lady, the one I would have married if... if things were different."

Stepping out of the double-wide stall, Anar walked towards the doors of the stables of the Prancing Pony. When the Ranger didn't follow after him, the youth turned to regard Aragorn over one wide shoulder with cool eyes and an empty face. Concerned, Aragorn patted Ronyo one last time and left the stall.

"Anar?"

"It's getting late. Shouldn't we go into the inn?" The boy asked, and walked on without waiting for a response. Aragorn watched him go, and wondered when the mysteries surrounding the boy would stop cropping up around him like weeds.

.

**III**

.

"Sorcha, is the stew ready?"

Jack Tanner poked his head into his wife's kitchen and inhaled deeply. But his wife, Shjan, who sat rocking near the fire with the new infant in her lap, was actually not his prime concern. His middle daughter, Sorcha, had agreed to watch the stew in the pot while her mother tended the new baby. Sorcha, her own baby planted firmly on her hip, stirred a bubbling batch of beef, carrot and leek stew over the roaring kitchen fire while listening to her two sisters, her brother, and her husband confer about the family business.

"Darla, we can't take on any more work. We're already more than a week behind as it is. How do you expect to keep up with those hoity-toity shops?" The oldest girl, Charlotte, demanded of the youngest.

Sorcha bounced the chubby toddler on her hip and continued to stir while listening for her little sister's response. She stirred the carrots and leeks around, hoping they'd soak up the flavor of the beef along with the seasoning of marjoram and rosemary. Tobias Butterbur had been along not even half an hour ago with a little satchel of the vegetables, a gift for the family in honor of the new babies. The boy had inquired after Master Tanner's handful of apple trees and come away with a bag of apples for his concern. _All in all_, Sorcha thought to herself, _a fair trade_. The Tanners kept the innkeeper and his family in apples and good clothes and he made sure none of the large family went hungry.

"But this new dress won't be needed for at least four or five months," the thirteen-year-old Darla protested, bringing the middle sister back to the argument. "It's for a wedding in the late spring. Timothy can have the embroidery finished by then, can't you, Tim? The pattern's very simple, Charlotte. Mama could even help."

"Mama's eyes are about as good as your common sense. Besides, simple to you is extraordinarily complex for everyone else," the oldest Tanner girl informed her dryly. Shoving thick brown hair out of her face, twenty-year-old Charlotte continued, "And you've forgotten the time of year, dear. Strider and a handful of the other Rangers will be through Bree soon enough, and their clothes always take days to repair. Strider's worse than a growing boy," she added, glaring at Timothy, who at just past seventeen had shot up an inch and a half in the last two months.

"I can handle it," Darla said. "Let me try. Tim and I can do it. And don't think I missed that crack about my common sense."

"It just seems like too much of a risk-"

"Just let her try, Charlotte," Sorcha murmured, taking a sip from the bowl of the wooden spoon in her hand. The rich, meaty smell of the stew and the crackling of the hearth fire filled the warm kitchen. "It can't hurt. If it looks like she might be taking too long, I'll help her finish. Even with the baby, I have time."

"But you have to take care of-"

"Strider's things won't take that long, a few days, maybe a week at the most. Relax. And you, oh so strong and silent, taste this," she said to her husband, who complied. He said nothing, but the appreciative expression on her face told her all she needed to know. Satisfied, she turned to her younger sister and asked, "Charlotte, can you handle watching supper for a minute?"

"Where are you going," Timothy asked, "to taste the _delicious_ stew of the town air?"

Her husband said nothing, only watched. Sorcha ignored her family and went out the kitchen door into the yard behind their cottage, her arm still around the chubby-faced child on her hip. The baby's hands curled in the plain, gray homespun of her dress. The seamstress wiped her greasy hand on her apron and sighed, letting the cooler air from outside beat back the heat from the kitchen that still clung to her like a second skin. Breathing in the cooler air, she heaved a sigh and tried to relax, ignoring the stench of street filth wafting from the main road. The tension in her shoulders and back never seemed to fade.

It bothered her, but not as much as the lateness of Strider's arrival.

Once, a few years ago, when she'd still been a young girl, the Ranger - who had always come, it seemed, since before her birth, to have his clothing mended, first by her grandmother, then by her mother, and now by her - had warned the Tanner family that if he were ever to tell them to leave Bree, they must pack up and run away immediately.

Where they were to go, he never said, but the burning intensity of his eyes told her that if he ordered them away, it would be a matter of life and death.

While her uncle lived in Staddle, and her father's aunt - the old biddy - was set up in a little stone cottage outside of Archet on the edges of the Chetwood, Sorcha did not want to go to either of those places. Her great-aunt was waspish and cold to everyone, and the seamstress did not want to raise her son around the woman. As for her uncle... well, she doubted her brother Timothy would do well under her uncle, who believed men worked at "manly" things, such as carpentry or blacksmithing, not the delicate and exquisite embroidery her brother did so well. The young mother did not want to go _there_, either.

Still, by this time the wild man of the North was trusted by her family to the extent that if he commanded, they would leave as he bid.

Sorcha had to wonder: was Strider well? What dangers kept him from coming? He was already three weeks late - he usually came at Midsummer, after most of the weddings in the township were over and most of the town drunks had settled down from the festivities. Now it was almost mid-August. Where was he? Would he even come this year? Midsummer and midwinter were the two events that drew the Ranger to the village. Would she see him soon, or have to wait until the winter? And what news would Strider bring to their household?

Troubled, the seamstress hoisted her son higher onto her hip and he burbled a protest. She had to wonder: were they going to have leave?

Where would they go?

.

**IV**

.

"Yes, my brother, that is very pretty," Princess Hendulome mumbled from the mound of linen sheets and wool blankets she used as wards against the chill of her father's castle. With her sightless eyes, she sought out Talagant, who plucked absently at the strings of his harp and hummed, a little nothing-melody from the top of his head. The boy watched his blind sister's eyes rove while he played. He was here because sometimes Hendulome would tell him stories... if he played long enough. The blind princess asked, "What is this called?"

"It has no name," Talagant replied, and switched to a minor chord and strummed a slow, eerie tune while he sang the word "la" along with it. This song had no name, either, but the melody reminded Talagant of his cousin, Hraveyar – Uruloce's daughter, small and fragile, almost human.

"Tell me, Your Highness," Hendulome murmured. "How is our lady mother, Her Majesty Isilme? Is she well?"

The _Liemuina_ boy bent his head so that his brown bangs fell over his eyes. He didn't need to see to play. The three rings in his ear - electrum, white gold, and _mithril_ - chinked against each other. His harp harmonized with the jingling of amber and ruby drops and the deep hum coming from his sister's throat. How to answer the blind princess's question? Isilme kept herself out of the public eye these days, since the loss of four of her favorite sons. With Ceuranar and Arandur dead, Anarmacil banished, and Ranlang vanished, the Queen had no reasons, she claimed, to associate with the court. Because of his mother's abandonment, his father could now rule the _Liemuina_ - at least the _Mormarta_ - how he wanted. Since he left Queen Uruloce alone, to do as she wished with Hidden Ones and other Races alike, the king's sister - the equally insane ruler of the _Calmarta_ - did not stop Morquanar from terrorizing his own people.

But Hendulome knew that. What was she really asking him?

He moved his fingers down from the center of the harp strings to the bottom, where the notes resonated against his fingertips and the frame of the instrument. Fingertips dancing, Talagant plucked minor chords, feeling the crystalline music brush against his ears. It was nothing special - he simply loved the minor keys. There was something melancholy and dark about them, like velvet shadows.

If Hendulome knew of the political standing of the Queen, then what was she really asking? Whether or not Isilme showed any signs of breaking free of her solitary confinement and putting a stop to Morquanar's tyranny? Unlikely that she would ask that, as Isilme had no real power other than in the shaping of the king's heirs. So what secrets was his blind sister trying to ferret out of him?

"Your thoughts are reflected in your music," the princess told him, but he didn't hear her. He was too deep in those same thoughts.

What had prompted Hendulome to ask about Isilme? Was Isilme well, that had been the question. Why would his sister ask that? Unless there was something about the Queen of the Night that none knew, save the blind princess lying immobile on the bed. Talagant turned his head a little to see his sister. Her seamed face twisted into a wry, half-smile. The boy frowned.

"In a kingdom overflowing with crowns wrought of thorns and silver, more roses come to choke out the weeds. The darkness deepens with every moon that passes, as the Queen's secret wishes come to fruition. But there are some who will shed blood to drown the thorns of the throne."

The darkness deepens? Was this bad? For time out of mind, the royal family of the _Mormarta_ had been referred to as _Liemuina_ _Mornie_, the Darkness of the Hidden Ones. If that darkness deepened... well, even if his father was becoming as cracked as a broken mirror - an event which Talagant doubted was too far off - the strengthening of the darkness of the Hidden People was not a bad thing. So why did Hendulome warn him against it? With every moon that passed, the power of the Carlothel family increased. How could this be a problem?

"More roses come, little brother," the withered form hissed. "Do you not understand? The flowers of the stars, red as blood - even now, they ripen and soon will bloom. Do you not see?"

The boy shook his head, confused. Roses? Flowers of the stars, red as blood... Carlothel, red flower star... more Carlothel...

Heat suffused his cheeks as realization slammed into him. For a moment, his fingers faltered on the strings of the box harp, then resumed their melodic rhythm. Of course. Of course his sister would see this before any other. Isilme visited Hendulome every day. Of course the blind princess would realize that the Queen of the Night, their mother, was with child again. There was no doubt that the child was Morquanar's. The love between the two monarchs was obvious even to an imbecile. But of course the princess would realize that the news of new children would place the queen in a precarious position.

"Is there danger to the Queen?" Talagant asked quietly, half-singing the words.

If anyone were eavesdropping, it might confuse them a little. In Morquanar's palace, the threat of being overheard was a given. So many petty and fawning courtiers listened at doorways and keyholes, intent on uncovering some words or actions that they could take back to the king and curry his favor. Linde had warned the younger _Liemuina_ of this, years ago. All it would get them, the crown princess told him, was suspicion and possibly a very bloody execution.

"You see much," Hendulome murmured. "You are our father's hope, while the darkness that is our sister holds his heart. He sees you as too young to be corrupted yet. Warn him of the whispers. He will not heed me. There are those who wish to gain his favor by slaying Mother. If Isilme dies, Father's sanity will be gone. If the roses wither on the vine, Mother's life will end."

"What?" Talagant's head came up with a snap that left his neck aching. "What do you mean?"

"Lower your voice, idiot. Do you not see the queen's weariness? How many of our kin lie dead, many so long ago that their bones molder beneath the graves of common soldiers? Ceuranar, our father's heir," Hendulome reminded him. "And Arandur and Norima. The heirs of light and darkness, and the steward our king gave to them."

In the boy's mind, he saw his brothers and sister as they were in the paintings in the Hall of Blood: Norima and Ceuranar, swirling around a dance floor of white marble. In a flowing gown of cream and black, the now dead Heir of Shadows let her head fall back and her ash blond hair stream out behind her. The prince, the Heir of Light, stood tall with his sister in his arms, in cream and gold, his cobalt eyes hard as sword blades but the joy in his face unmistakable. Arandur had Ceuranar's short, reddish bronze hair and sun-kissed skin, and he stood off to one side in that painting, watching his older brother and sister dance.

Isilme and Morquanar had often danced that way. Talagant knew it, and his soul ached for his mother and father.

"... Erulisse, Laire, and Mavoine," the blind royal mumbled from her mound of linens.

Talagant felt his heart shudder in his chest. He had known Erulisse and the others. In his almost one hundred years, he had seen only one war, but it had been enough because Erulisse, the next Heir to the Shadows, and Laire and Mavoine, had all been snatched away by the jaws of death. Erulisse, as pale as a shaft of moonlight, her hair like silver, her eyes like gold coins, as tall as their father, and almost as broad as Ceuranar had been; Laire, with her golden blond hair and eyes like pine forests, slender as a new tree, born on the summer solstice; and Mavoine, who had been born small and stayed that way, only five feet tall when she died, with thick, curly black hair and dark gray eyes like twin knives, their father's longing for a daughter who favored him.

"Nenimir and Mirilhun," Hendulome added. "Tintagel."

His brother, the harper remembered woodenly, poisoned by assassins intent on destroying his father. And the sisters that Morquanar insisted were dead because of Anarmacil, and not because of the Dark King's madness...

"Lothiriel and Lothel, Elanor and Erynel."

Four of his sisters, dead in an uprising from some of the guards who believed - who knew for a fact - that Morquanar was not fit to be king any longer.

"Nimmorel, and even young Fion, brought down by an assassin as a child. You are the youngest of us, but this you know. Fifteen children dead, and nearly ten gone from her sight and her hope. If these children die, our mother will go mad and take her own life. And they know it."

"Who?" Talagant demanded. "Who is plotting against us? How do you know?"

"Because I am blind and withered and have lain half in my grave since the moment of my birth, there are many who see me as stupid, deaf. They do not hear the words I hold in trust for you and my other siblings. That is good."

"But who is planning on hurting Mother?" Talagant demanded.

"Lord Nahame and his brothers, but the plan is from the darkness..."

"The darkness?" In Talagant's mind, an image of a pale face, more than half ruined by scars like melted wax, with one violet eye and one sightless gray orb in a mound of ruined flesh, appeared like an ephemeral ghost. With a gleaming long sword of _vilyekemen_ that captured the cold light of the stars, in _mithril_ armor like the moon, his oldest living sister's shade sprung forth in the boy's thoughts. Linde stood there in the forefront of his mind, wild and feral, her black hair loose and blowing on the wind, a shadow banner. But Morelinde loved Isilme. Why kill the Queen, if her heart bled so profusely that the Heir of Shadows could not even kill the mad monarch who ruled with a fist of cold, killing iron?

And Linde would never harm a child. She loved all of her siblings, even Olosse with her half a brain, and Falquanel, who was more than a little mad at times. Even Hendulome, twisted and hideous.

This question was put to the withered princess, but the only response Talagant could wrench from his blind, twisted sister was a hoarse snore. Lifting his head and stilling the strings of his harp, he saw that Hendulome had fallen asleep.

Sighing, troubled in his heart, the boy got to his feet and quickly fled the suite of rooms where the broken princess resided. The _Narmarta_ lad was unsure of whether or not his sister was right. Had she ever been wrong? That was what he needed to know. And so he would ask his oldest brother, Envin. Trustworthy as Morelinde, Envinyatar would know what to do about the problem.

.

**V**

.

"Now, be a good lass an' see what's keepin' yer brother, Lissie," Barliman Butterbur called to his youngest daughter through the kitchen door.

Stooping in front of the fire, the newly-turned nine-year-old girl hunched over, feeding white hickory chips to the fire to flavor the smoke for the boar roasting on a spit in the oven. Using her dark green skirts and soot-smudged apron to protect her hands from the heat, she shut the heavy oven door and wiped the sweat from her forehead. With a silent look at her twelve-year-old sister, Nan, that told the other girl she was in charge of the fire, Lissabeth darted out the back door in search of her brother.

Barley glanced at his two middle daughters, Nan and Penny, who were minding the cooking fires and ensuring the mutton stew didn't boil over and the pork didn't burn, and then he went to check on the main room of the tavern. Simon Ferny was in the crowd tonight, and if that no-account villain tried to put hands on Tansy Butterbur, Barliman's eldest daughter, there would be a recompense. Trying not to show his agitation, the tavern master caught a glimpse of Tansy's brown curls and bright green dress disappearing into the crowd, a tray set with four mugs of walnut ale balanced on her raised hand. Scanning the packed room, he noticed his second eldest, Susan, and the eldest of his three sons, Ian, helping a drunk Henry Warden stumble to the door. Likely the pair would help the night watchman down the street to his house, where the old sod's wife would put him to rights.

"Da," a thin voice said at his elbow. Glancing down, the fat barkeep saw his youngest boy, Toby, age seven, holding up a bag heavy enough to make his thin arms shake. "'S from Mistress Shepherd, she says fer them carrots an' things."

Taking the burlap sack of what, by the smell, Barliman guessed were apples, he shooed the lad off and carted the apples into the kitchen. On a normal day, he'd have Bob or one of his other lads do it, but the room outside was all shouting and swearing, with too much noise and not enough air. The kitchen was warm, almost hot, and three of his six daughters were working steadily - Nan and Penny at the fires, and May-Bell kneading bread dough, slapping it, rolling it, and pounding it with her flour-white fists. Barley set the sack on one of the counters and heaved himself onto a stool with a groan.

"Have the Rangers come yet, Da?" Penny asked, sticking a sharp metal prong into the boar. A tiny dribble of hot juice spilled out.

"Now, you best be stayin' 'way from them Rangers, Penny Butterbur, or I'll take a switch to ye," but the girl brushed her hair out of her face and smiled at him. The innkeeper knew his threats weren't taken seriously by any of his children. He was more likely to sprout wings than take a hand to any of them. Still, his children were always too friendly to those wild men. "I mean it, Penny - don't ye be actin' too friendly with those folk out of the North, ye understand?"

"But they tells jolly stories," Lissie said as she came back in. Seeing Tansy's empty tray, she grabbed several recently washed tankards and began to fill them half with ale, half with barley water. To her father she added, "Rob got hisself bit by one of the horses like a crack-nob. He's washin' under the pump."

"Eh, that lad," Barliman muttered.

He looked as if he meant to say something even more disparaging, but at that moment Tansy ducked into the kitchen and set her tray on the little table by the door to the tavern's common room. Arching her back until it cracked, the barmaid then hitched her thumb towards the doorway and said, "Da, Strider's here. Him an' another lad are waitin' out by the bar."

"Another lad?"

"Yes, sir. Looks ragged to bits, mind, but armed like a soldier or a city guardsman, fair glitterin' with blades. Still, he doesn't seem like such a bad sort. I recognize the type - reminds me of our Ian," Tansy said, recalling her oldest brother. "Anyways, but ye said to tell ye when Strider arrived."

"Aye, that I did. Now he's here, those that come through around midsummer will be followin' after like chicks after a hen. Ye best be getting' back out there, Tansy."

"Yes, Da," she said and, picking up the wooden tray that little Nan had just filled with full, foaming tankards, went back out there.

Butterbur trudged to the door that led to all the commotion of the common room, but before he put his hand on the latch he turned and fixed Nan, Penny, Lissie and May-Bell with a fierce glare. All four stopped their tasks to meet his bright eyes. The innkeeper held up a finger in warning and shook it at them, sternly.

"You four do your work an' no gawkin' at them Rangers," he ordered.

"Yes, Da," they chirruped like a flock of blue jays.

Satisfied, he went out into the noise of the inn's main room.

Sure enough, standing at the bar with his hood thrown back stood the Ranger. His keen gray eyes slashed across the room like knives, and his mouth was thinned to the barest of lines. In his weather beaten, travel stained leather coat and scuffed boots, he looked more like some sort of black-hearted, villainous bandit than any sort of Ranger. Trying to meet those harsh eyes made the innkeeper shudder. What did his younglings see in the grim visage and cool manners?

"Strider," Barley Butterbur said in a chilly but civil voice, nodding to the Ranger politely. The wild man nodded back with equal regard.

The barkeep eyed the tall, somber Man's grimy countenance with obvious but not malicious distrust before glancing at the sullen youth standing a little ways behind him and to the left. The boy, about the same age as Tansy, wasn't much to look at. Scruffy, dirty-blond hair a little long around the ears and curling at the neck, with defiant blue eyes, the youth was of a height with the Ranger, putting him taller than Butterbur himself, but thin and underfed. His left ear was torn and ragged. Slashes and bruises marred the lad's face, including a particularly nasty one on the left cheek. A florid scar ran diagonally across the boy's face, and one arm was strapped tight to his thin chest in a sling. Still, the boy might be dangerous - he was armed to the teeth, with at least four blades worn openly - two small knives, a long knife and a short sword. The innkeeper wasn't so sure about that youth, not with those blades and the thick, wine-colored scar across his face.

_That one might be trouble,_ the barkeep thought to himself. But maintaining his professionalism, he asked, "What can I do for ye, Strider?"

.

**VI**

.

Pulling himself from his contemplation of the boy who had accompanied him for nearly four days, Aragorn brought his attention to the fat innkeeper before him. He'd been coming to the Prancing Pony for nearly forty years, when old Ebenezer Mugwort had been its keeper. The Ranger had noticed an increase in the standards of the establishment since the thirty-something Barliman Butterbur and his wife, Lily, had taken over the place. Sadly, Lily Butterbur had died in childbirth several years ago. Aragorn had liked her – she was a no-nonsense woman with a mother's natural wisdom. He'd made sure to come to the Prancing Pony in those days, made sure his custom went to Butterbur when he and his family most needed it. The Ranger had liked Lily, and still liked Barliman. While a fat, toddling Man prone to gabbling like a turkey, the old barkeep was a good enough sort. Maybe being in this place would have a good effect on Anarmacil. Aragorn had high hopes for the company of Susan, Tansy, Robin and Ian Butterbur for the few days they would be in town.

"Two rooms," he said gruffly, "dinner, and-"

"_Strider_!"

The high, happy voice from behind him told the _Dunedain_ that Tansy Butterbur had found him. Out of almost all the folk of the Bree-land, five-foot-three and plump little Tansy ranked second only to Sorcha and her sisters in mutual affection. He'd known her, distantly, since she could barely toddle about the common room. Once she'd learned to speak in sentences longer than three words and a bubble of baby drool, the child had taken it upon herself to become his "friend." Somehow, in the last sixteen years she'd half-way succeeded.

"Hello, Tansy," he said, half turning, and somehow the barmaid managed to buss his stubbly cheek with a friendly peck. Only the last three years of being so greeted kept any fluster from showing on his face. The Ranger had learned long ago that the girl was a demonstrative sort. Never mind that he was almost four times her age.

This notion was only reinforced by the pert kiss on the cheek and cheerful wink she bestowed on a laughably flustered Anarmacil.

"What be ye lookin' fer, me buck?" She asked the Ranger carelessly, balancing her tray of beer mugs on a raised hand and one round shoulder.

"Two rooms, if you would, Tansy, Barliman, and dinner served in a private dining room at six of the clock. And if Toby could run down to the Shepherd house, I'd be grateful."

"I'll fetch him. Nob!" At the barmaid's call, a stout little Hobbit with curly brown hair and sun-browned features somehow appeared at her elbow. She handed him the tray, kissed the top of his curly head, and said, "I'm to fetch Toby. Could ye get these to that rowdy lot of layabouts horsin' 'round with Simon Ferny? That crab apple," she added vehemently. To Aragorn, she said, "Don't ye fret yerself, laddy-buck, we'll see to ye proper, no worries." And the lass bustled through the door to the kitchen, letting it swing shut behind her.

After his eldest daughter walked out, the innkeeper shivered before glancing out at the guests. The cold, black eyes of Simon Ferny stared back at him, mocking and insolent. Curse it, but the sour man had seen Tansy kissing Strider and the boy. Now there'd be hell to pay. The fat man turned to the Ranger.

"Eh, Strider..." Barliman began, looking uncomfortable. A flush rose in his fat face.

A chill settled in those keen gray eyes.

"You're not about to tell me the place is full, are you, Barliman? I've never been turned away from the Pony before, and I'd have to wonder why I'd be turned away now."

"No, no! It's nothin' like that," the innkeeper protested, looking around at the guests chatting and drinking at the crowded tables. When the muddy brown eyes found Simon Ferny, the barkeep straightened up and clenched his fists. Seeing the Ranger with Tansy had given him an idea. The girls liked Strider well enough, and the wild man was bigger than most any Man in the township of Bree. Perhaps... "It's about Tansy an' Susan. They're at an age, now, an' sometimes my customers, well... they get the wrong idea about my lassies. Mostly our Ian's around to look after 'em, but lately... well, I don't know where he goes off to. Maybe he has a young lass of his own. But I can't be every which where all at once an' I be wonderin' if'n ye might be imposed upon to stay 'round a bit longer than yer usual time... for my lassies' sakes."

Aragorn's attention sharpened until fire seemed to smolder in his eyes. He leaned forward, resting his arms on the polished wooden countertop, and murmured to Butterbur, "Has someone been bothering Tansy and Susan?"

"Aye," the girls' father said. "That Simon Ferny's got it in his thick head to take liberties with my Tansy, an' his boy Bill is hardly better with Susan. The lassies try to laugh it off, but I got eyes, Strider. A father knows. Twice now, Tansy's come into the kitchen after Simon Ferny's been rough with her an' she's done cried her eyes out by the fire. Once I found bruises on her arm, she won't say as from who. I've told him time an' again to stay out but with his men 'round him, I... there's naught I can do. My lads ain't grown enough to take on the likes o' 'im an' I'm just one man. An' we do well enough fer ourselves, but we don't have enough coin to hire any sort o' help."

The Ranger nodded, thinking. This wasn't his normal line of work - not at all. And Gandalf had left word to be available if the Wizard should call on him. That did not mesh well with staying to help the barkeep and his family. And there was the problem of Anar, his almost-apprentice. Still, the Numenorean thought he might have some private words with Simon Ferny and his son about the proper treatment of ladies.

He glanced at Anar, whose summer sky gaze burned like blue fire. What had the boy suddenly so angry?

"I'll do what I can, Barliman, but I am not my own master in all things and I'm no guardsmen. You ought to tell the Wardens."

"Ah, that I know," the innkeeper mumbled nervously. This conversation had gone on long enough, in his opinion. Only his love and concern for his oldest girls and the Ranger's obvious regard for them had pushed him this far. "But it seems Simon's got 'em all pocketed right well. They'll pitch brawlers, but that lot... nay, not them, not unless they's fightin' or crackin' bones. But anyway, I thank ye, Strider. Just ye bein' 'round ought te keep tha' lot from makin' trouble. Ah, two rooms an' some supper at six. Ah, there's Tobias - he'll have told Sorcha yer on yer way."

"We'll be going then," Aragorn said.

"Don't let any of your stable hands touch the dun-and-black stallion with the black blaze," the youth said suddenly.

Butterbur stared at him, surprised. The beast in question must obviously belong to the lad or to Strider, but never had the Ranger's beast been left unattended by the inn staff. The ragged youth went on, "I stabled him myself in one of the double-wide stalls near the back. Do not attempt to move him, do not touch him, do not even get too close to him, or he'll take a bite out of you. He already took a bite out of your stable boy, Rob," the lad said without looking at the barkeep. "I'll see to him."

"Very good, young master," Butterbur acquiesced, and watched as Strider and the boy walked out of the common room and out into the street.

Outside, Aragorn looked up and down the bustling streets of Bree while Anarmacil went to say a temporary goodbye to Ambarone, safely installed in the Prancing Pony's stable.

.

**VII**

.

"He's a wild un, he is."

A familiar voice brought Anar's attention to itself as the boy stood in the double-wide stall, stroking Ambarone's nose. Turning, the _Liemuina_ youth caught sight of the stable boy the stallion had found so appetizing earlier. Next to him was a taller youth, probably Anarmacil's height but with far more muscle. Wavy brown hair swept back from a solemn, tanned face as wide as a barn door, which was accented by a snub nose and dark brown eyes. He looked enough like the stable boy to probably be a brother. As soon as this realization struck, the _Liemuina_ prince shifted into a fighting stance, narrowing his eyes.

"Is that a problem?" He ground out from between clenched teeth.

Did these upstart mortals want a fight? Was the brother here to take revenge for the stable hand's injury from Ambarone's teeth? Anar glanced at Ambarone, saw the _morroh_ paw the straw and packed earth of the stable floor. It served them right for getting so close to a war horse from the Royal Stables.

"La, no," the taller boy said, shrugging broad shoulders. It would've taken two of Anarmacil to stretch the width of this youth. "He's a beauty an' no mistake."

"Ian cuffed me fer gettin' so close to 'im," Rob told Anar sheepishly. "Called me an idjit."

"Ye was an idjit fer touchin' a man's horse with no say from 'im," the huge lad, Ian, said sharply, and cuffed his brother again, but lightly. Then he walked smartly up to Anarmacil and stuck out his hand. "Me name's Ian. Ye've met me idget brother, Robin. Our Da's the innkeeper. An' no doubt, as yer with Strider, ye've met our Tansy."

"The girl with the kisses?"

"Aye, that'd be the one," Ian said, chuckling. "Tansy's a sweet sort. Pop'lar with the lads. But anyways, I wanted ta look at this fine lordlin' of a horse. But Rob 'ere says he owns ta a mean set o' teeth."

"Aye, he's got lots of teeth," Anar acknowledged, relaxing his shoulders a bit and letting his speech slide into semi-street cant.

Scruffing his hair out of his eyes, the boy unbolted the stall doors and beckoned to the stable hands. Ian approached slowly and Robin seemed unsure. But when the stallion stuck his nose into Anarmacil's shoulder, the younger boy seemed to draw a bit of courage. The _Liemuina_ youth stroked Ambarone's nose and murmured soothingly into his ear. Ambarone blew a wad of snot onto Anar's worn, russet shirt. Ignoring this indignity, the youth kept talking as Ian came closer. Blue eyes locked with brown, and Anar nodded. Ian reached out slowly, making sure the stallion saw his approach, and touched the warm, quivering neck. For several moments the horse stood tense, ready to bite or bolt, but as his master kept murmuring soothingly and petting him, eventually he relaxed.

"His name?" Ian whispered.

"Ambarone. It means '_sunrise' _in Elvish."

"More like a sunset," Ian said.

Anarmacil laughed and explained, "My little brother Fion named him, and he used to always mix up the words for things. If he wanted water, he would say milk. If he was thirsty, he would say hungry. And when I asked him what name I should give my horse, he said 'sunrise.' Ambarone didn't seem to mind, so I left it thus." For a minute, Fion's small, chubby face flitted through the _Liemuina_ youth's mind, and his heart lurched sideways in his chest. The _morroh_ stallion nudged the boy with his large nose and snorted another snot wad onto the faded shirt, bringing Anar back to the stables. "Anyway, I have to be getting back to..." What had Aragorn said to call him here? Anar couldn't remember. "My master," he finished. "Don't think just because Ambarone's friendly now means he'll always be friendly. Only touch him if I'm here."

"Aye," Ian replied, giving the stallion's neck a final pat. "I'll be sure t'member tha'. I likes all me bits where they go proper."

Anarmacil strolled out of the stall and closed it behind him, then walked between Ian and Rob out of the stable, talking about horses. The Narmarta youth was surprised to feel not only relaxed, but _happy_ between the two boys. Mortal, they were, but they had no idea who he was or why he was with Aragorn and not with his own family, and it seemed they didn't really have an interest in finding out. He let himself enjoy discussing the difference between stallions and geldings when it came to racing and jumping, and whether mares made better warhorses. It was clear that neither human had ever been in a real battle, but from the hard edge to Rob's eyes and the crooked set of Ian's nose, he knew they'd seen some fighting. They weren't totally innocent. That helped him to relax even more.

When Aragorn caught sight of them strolling toward the front of the Prancing Pony, he nearly did a double take. Despite the injured arm strapped tightly to the narrow chest, despite the bruises and wounds still marring the youthful face, Anar was smiling. The Ranger doubted if he'd ever seen the boy smile that way. Not even when speaking of his siblings. Aragorn's hopes rose a bit more. Maybe they'd stay in Bree for a couple weeks, let Anarmacil spend some time with younglings his own age.

The cheerful farewell between the three lads made the Ranger smile. Anar strode up to him, a flush of contentment on his usually pale cheeks. The Ranger clapped him on his uninjured shoulder and said, "It is good to see you in such spirits."

"I like them," Anar told his new master, surprise tingeing his voice. "I didn't think I would. I thought Ian was there to rough me up at first, but I was wrong. I like them both. And Tansy. She reminds me of several of my sisters. They're big on cheek kissing, too." The youth scrubbed a fist against his cheek, as if remembering the sororital caress.

"Anarmacil." Aragorn waited until he had the lad's full attention. "We're going to see an old friend of mine, a lady who deserves your respect and would no more do you harm than I would. Please try to be civil to her."

Heat suffused Anar's face, and he thought of several scathing retorts to bite off, but kept them locked away. _No more do you harm than I would_, Aragorn had said. Yet another promise of understanding and friendship from the Ranger. And it was a small request. The Narmarta sighed and ran his good hand through his hair. "I don't try to be rude, Aragorn," the boy replied apologetically, rubbing the back of his neck and staring down at the scuffed toes of his boots.

The Ranger glanced at him questioningly, waiting.

Anarmacil sighed and raked his hand through his hair again. "I just... it's a sort of test. If people are willing to put up with it, to see what lies beneath, then they might be worth getting to know. They might actually be trustworthy."

"And so, do you trust me, Anarmacil?"

"I..." The youth glanced up, straight into eyes like steel, but without the icy chill of iron.

For a brief moment, the boy saw eyes of liquid gold, Nairaloth's eyes, and remembered her words in his dreams: _you should trust him._ The gold melted into glittering violet like amethyst, and the whisper of Linde's shade, the brutal monster from his dreams, hissed, _"Why won't you trust the one person who can help you? The Ranger who holds you captive, he is no enemy of yours. Aragorn is not our parents. Do not be a coward. Do not turn your back on allies because you are afraid."_

Then Aragorn's eyes were silver again, like Morquanar's, and Anarmacil fought against the instinctive flinch and solemnly shook his head. He couldn't trust the Ranger yet. Not quite. He knew Aragorn would never hurt him on purpose, but would he consider Anarmacil's past crimes – _obscenities, _the boy thought bitterly – justification for turning him away from the only safety available to the youth now?

"I can't," Anar whispered, lowering his gaze. "I'm sorry. I just..."

The Ranger didn't allow any trace of bitterness or sorrow to touch his voice as he said, kindly, gently, "All in good time. No apologies necessary. Come now," he added, lightly squeezing the boy's shoulder. A tentative smile touched Anar's lips, and the Ranger added, "Let us go to see Mistress Sorcha. As your new master, it's my duty to outfit you with new gear. Let's start with clothes."

.

**VIII**

.

_Curse the gods who gave me short legs! Hraveyar thought as she rushed down the hall, dodging servants, various courtiers, and furniture. The Glittering Palace was expansive, and she was very small. And her cousin's room was nowhere near the Council Chambers. Various obstacles – sharp corners, palace dogs, the children of nobles, and the occasional footman – made getting to Linde's bedchamber similar to running a gauntlet._

"I beg your pardon," she mumbled when she knocked over a young page. The princess hauled the child to his feet and dashed around him before he could stammer his own startled apology. It was better that way – she was in disgrace, and anyone seen being courteous to her besides her family would've drawn Morquanar's suspicions. Instead, the staff tended to ignore her unless forced to speak to her. They didn't dislike her – it was simply safer for everyone that way.

When Hraveyar made it to the ebony door with the silver filigree in the shape of birds and stars, with two of the Queen's Swans standing on either side, she stopped for a minute to catch her breath. The guards, in their white breeches and tunics that made them look so much like ghosts, didn't speak, but merely eyed the petite princess. Hraveyar finally managed to gasp out, "His Majesty the King of Darkness commands the attendance of the Heir of Shadows." The guards didn't acknowledge her, but merely moved aside, and she burst in.

"He sent me-" Hraveyar began the minute she was in Linde's room.

"Sent you to fetch me?" Linde interrupted, closing her book – another leather-bound law book. Leaning forward, the princess rubbed her bad knee through her skirts, trying to ease the cold tension in the joint. If she got up now, her leg would buckle and she would most likely fall to the floor. "I figured it would be today."

"That why you're dressed like a peacock instead of wearing your normal plethora of grays?" The short princess asked, indicating the heavy, black velvet gown that hung on the other woman's body, embroidered with silver thread and sprinkled with crystals, beads of jet, and tiny amethyst and diamond chips. For once, the Heir of Shadows wore a pair of heavily embroidered black velvet slippers instead of her usual leather boots. A silver circlet that seemed to be woven of slender thorns sat atop her head, a hunk of obsidian polished and cut to the size and shape of a quail egg set in _mithril_ nestled against her throat, and she wore three _mithril_ hoops in her right ear, hung with shards of obsidian and diamond spikes.

"When an official summons comes, you dress for it," Linde said matter-of-factly, as if her current finery were nothing out of the ordinary. Hraveyar knew she'd shuck it off as soon as she got back to her own room again. Heir of Shadows she might be, but Hraveyar knew her cousin did not enjoy the intimidating regalia she was often compelled to wear before the King and the Dark Council. Most of the royal family wore comfortable clothing when court functions didn't loom, but when they did, the Carlothel family dressed to kill. The heavy, cumbersome velvet clothes the half-blind princess wore now dragged at her, putting even more strain on her bad leg. As for the circlet of silver thorns... if anyone so much as touched it, several of the sharp spines would draw the princess's blood.

"He's been thinking about my proposition for almost two full days," Linde continued, still massaging her knee. "Usually he makes these sorts of decisions in a couple of hours. But I suppose the idea of me and Falquanel leaving the palace gave him an apoplexy."

Hraveyar shook her head in admiration of her cousin's cool demeanor. Morelinde knew, then, what her father wanted. She was being summoned to hear Morquanar's decision on the envoy to the Shire. If things went perfectly, the group would be four royals, and a flock of Swans and Crows. If Morelinde got her way, the four royals would include Fanya and Callo, who had experience fending for themselves in the wild, Morelinde herself, and Falquanel, who had gone to war with Anarmacil and Linde during the Fell Winter. Linde would leave one of her sisters – not Olosse, the whole court would be in shambles when the Heir returned – in charge for the month or two she was absent from the Glittering Throng. Perhaps Wennolë. She was the eldest after Olosse the Idiot and Tintanie, who spent most of her time with the Royal Smiths and had no aptitude for ruling whatsoever. If that were unacceptable to the Dark King, Morelinde might have to resort to putting Alqualoth in charge. She wasn't the next eldest, but she was the wisest and most shrewd after Wennolë.

But the odds of things going perfectly were slim to none, and if the King of Darkness did not agree to his daughter's plan... the princess's cousin didn't know what Linde would do then.

"Are you ready?" Hraveyar asked quietly.

"Almost," she replied, kneading the muscles in her leg. "Blast it, but this hurts. Why is it so cold in here?"

"Because the frost sprites' sole purpose in life is to plague you," her cousin told her. When the half-blind _Liemuina_ shot her a dirty look, the red-haired princess added with a shrug, "Or because you never pay attention and the fire died when you weren't looking. But I would bet money on the frost sprites."

Morelinde rolled her eyes and slowly got to her feet. Bah. She was moving like an old woman. The stiffness in her leg was borderline pain. Keeping it from crossing the line was an uncomfortable process in and of itself. The princess stretched once, feeling her back crackle with tension, and then she brushed her dark hair out of her face before limping towards the door. She walked out, the petite Hraveyar trailing behind her with a dubious look on her pale face.

.

**IX**

.

Sorcha brushed a sweat-dampened curl from her forehead and, with a twist of her now aching wrist, set the wheel to spinning again. Darla had received a commission just that day, a simple one – to mend a very expensive dress, which had a torn seam at the shoulder. The only problem was the thread. It was not plain thread, but deep saffron-dyed silk and flax mixed, to give it a shimmering, metallic sheen. No one in her family had the skill to weave flax with silk thread except Mistress Tanner, Sorcha's mother, who was now nearly blind as a bat from the years of embroidering by flickering candlelight, and Charlotte and Sorcha. Charlotte was in bed, ill with morning sickness from the new babe in her belly. That left Sorcha, who could spin while her son slept.

She was out of practice, she saw that now. Otherwise there wouldn't be this ache in her back or the dull throb in her wrist that, in someone else, would betoken inexperience with the spinning wheel. Sorcha Tanner was _not _inexperienced. She just hadn't had to spin in a long time. Normally, the Tanners simply purchased their thread at the market. Not this time. No one had the proper thread for this dress.

One glance at the shadows on the wall from the sun outside told her it was near time for Toby Butterbur to be by with news. The innkeeper's son had been coming by every day or so to tell the Tanners if the Rangers were come to Bree. While most days the child merely came, relayed his news, and trotted off home again, Sorcha thought she might just keep him awhile, feed him up, give him some of the milk Timothy had brought in that morning. They kept it in the cellar to cool it, and it would probably be better for the boy, who was too young to handle the oppressive August heat without something cold to drink.

_You're simply looking for an excuse to shirk,_ the practical, unforgiving part of her mind told her. With a wry twist of her lips, the twenty-something seamstress replied, _Absolutely. It's hotter than a forge in here, my hands hurt, my wrist hurts, my back hurts, and my rump hurts. I'll slack off a bit and give my hind-end a bit of a break when I've got an excuse, if you don't mind._

"Sorcha! Sorcha!"

For just a second, she froze when Darla yelled her name, a sudden panic seizing her limbs. Was someone hurt? Was it one of the babies? But no, Darla had sounded... she tried to grasp the appropriate word... happy. Delighted, in fact. Which meant only one thing.

_Strider!_

She leapt up and bolted out of the spinning room at the back of the cottage, dodging the dogs and the children, until she made it into the front room. Thankfully, her husband had doused the fire on the hearth and opened the shutters, cooling the room. And on one of the benches against the wall was Strider. He was finally here. And there was nothing about him – no worn-ness about the clothes, no weariness in the eyes, no obvious injuries – to show that he'd been late at all. He lounged against the cool, stone wall, his long legs stretched out before him, speaking quietly to a young man. That one, however, had obviously been on the receiving end of a painful beating.

His scruffy, golden-bronze hair was just long enough that it was beginning to curl at the nape of his neck, which she could see because his head was bent. She could also see the ragged, black-scabbed mess where the tip of his ear should have been. His hands were mottled with the sickly yellow and pale brown of old bruises, and his right arm was in a sling and bound tightly across his chest. There was a dark line of scab in the middle of a yellow-green bruise on his cheek. When he turned to her fully, she was shocked by the thick, florid scar slashing diagonally across his young face. The skin around it, stretching about a quarter-inch from the scar itself, was shiny and oddly stretched, as if the flesh had been burned.

Then she met his eyes and saw the pain there. The boy had the same eyes as Timothy, and that filled her with a hot fury. Did the youth know his hurt was so obvious? Or was it only obvious to her, because she was a mother, and because her little brother had the same kind of hurt?

"Where have you been, Strider?" Sorcha asked, pushing back her hair. "We've been worried sick."

"I do apologize, Sorcha. My apprentice needed to be seen to before we could set out for Bree. Anarmacil Carlothel," the Ranger added, jerking his chin at the boy before nodding respectfully to Sorcha, "this is Sorcha Tanner, one of Bree's finest seamstresses. She'll be the one making your new clothes."

The boy immediately surged to his feet and bowed at the waist, an oddly courtly gesture that made Sorcha smile. She could tell by the cut and cloth of his clothing, though worn, that this boy came from wealth and station, a station higher than any Bree could boast. Sorcha had been to Gondor – once. They had family there – a distant cousin – and she had used that relation as an excuse to venture there when she was a girl. It was in Gondor that she'd met her husband. Once – only once – she'd seen a lady at Ithilien, one of the Gondorian cities, and known that the silks and velvets the beautiful lady wore were rich, richer than any custom Sorcha would ever be called upon to make. This boy's clothing reminded her of that. The shirt was simple linen, but dyed red, a hearty red that was still scarlet despite the dust of the road and the patches at the sleeves. The boy's vest was of hand-tooled leather, embossed with golden scrolling filigree embossed in the smooth, brown leather. His trousers were the same leather, and his boots, though scuffed, were very well made. The Ranger almost never wore such rich things, and Sorcha doubted the youth had received his clothes from Strider.

She knew the Rangers sometimes took lads of what she supposed were noble births – the youngest sons of lords, she expected, though she couldn't be sure – and the seamstress supposed this boy was one of those, so she dipped a country curtsy and murmured, "A pleasure, young lord."

"No lord am I, mistress. I was stripped of my title."

As soon as the words were out of his mouth, Anarmacil winced. Why had he told her that? He didn't even know this woman!

But her eyes were kind, the soft blue of Queen Isilme's eyes when Anar had been a child. The youth remembered his mother's eyes, misty gray-blue in the early morning as she woke him for a ramble in the woods with some of his siblings. Not the cold, steely gray of Isilme's eyes when Morquanar had beaten Anarmacil after his sisters' deaths. And the dark tumbling curls reminded him of Morelinde. But the way she moved, the ease, the comfortableness Mistress Sorcha possessed, reminded him of two people. One was Mavoine, who had always made time for her younger siblings, who had often been the one – when Isilme or Morquanar could not easily be found or brought to him – to comfort childish hurts, wipe childish tears, kiss away childish nightmares. The other was Nairaloth, and that made Anarmacil want to trust the human seamstress almost immediately.

"If you agree to call me Sorcha, I shall call you Anarmacil. Mistress Sorcha if you must, but not simply 'mistress,' for I feel older than my years when called thus. Does that suit you?" Her voice had a strange, shushing quality, like beaded skirts over stone, or the rush of blood beneath his ear when he laid his head against Nairaloth's breast.

He nodded, and she led him to be measured for his clothes. Aragorn watched the youth, normally so surly and reticent, open like a flower for Sorcha as she spoke to him of inconsequential things – food, for the most part, which any young man would appreciate; but also of books, and what sort of learning the scarred boy had. She seemed to almost instinctively skirt the subject of Anar's family, never mentioning father, mother, brothers or sisters. She did not ask after his injuries or the thick scar across his face, and moved easily around his injuries while measuring him. Yet in less than five minutes, she had managed to draw out a fact from Anarmacil that Aragorn had only gleaned from things the boy had said in anger.

_He trusts her, the Dúnadan thought, folding his arms across his chest. Something about her puts him at ease. Perhaps she can learn the secrets I would have from him. Or at least learn the cause of his exile, or the nightmares that plague him. He will not speak of such to me._

Sorcha's young son, Liam, only a ten-week-old babe the last time Aragorn had seen him, toddled into the room just as the seamstress was finishing. Aragorn started to sit forward, intent on lifting the child and dandling him on one leather-covered knee to keep the little one out from under foot. With some surprise did the Ranger watch Anarmacil kneel down in front of the babe and smile, a true smile full of genuine warmth. The little one gave the youth a gummy smile, showing off the five baby teeth poking through the gum.

"Hello, manling," said Anar, tweaking the baby's nose. "Where have you wandered in from? Have you been off having high adventures in the forests? Wooing young maidens in the taverns, perhaps?"

Liam giggled and put his small, pink hands on either side of Anarmacil's face. He wasn't careful with his touch, either, but the youth didn't protest, only smiled and tweaked the little nose again. Liam glanced up at Sorcha as if to say, _Look, Mama! Look what I found!_ Sorcha bent down and scooped up the child, bouncing him a little on her hip.

"Don't hit, Liam," the seamstress said softly, kissing the baby's forehead. "Anarmacil, could you watch him while I go to the storeroom with Strider? I want him to decide what cloth to use, in case you need formal attire or anything besides the Ranger uniform."

Delight spread over the youth's scarred face, and he nodded, as eager as a small boy. "Of course, Mistre- Sorcha. Come on, then, manling." Sorcha offered the child. Deftly, despite being hampered by his bad arm, Anarmacil managed to secure the babe on his hip, much as Sorcha had done a moment ago. The baby didn't protest the change in ownership, only tugged at the _Liemuina_ youth's shirt collar and giggled before stuffing an extra bit of the shirt's cloth into the nearly-toothless mouth. Anar laughed. "Delicious, is it not? Much better than vegetables, I'll warrant."

Anarmacil smiled at the baby, wondering what it would have been like if he had wed Naira, gotten her with child. Would their own babe have been like this one, chubby-legged and bright-eyed, just beginning to cut his teeth, a perfectly normal child? Or would their babe have been twisted, malformed, mindless, gibbering? Or worse, would their child have been like his father, or his aunt, perfectly ordinary on the outside, but with the root of insanity in the blood, growing over the years until it drove Anar and Naira's son or daughter mad?

_It's no use to think of such things, the boy thought, making a silly face for the human child's amusement. Little Liam giggled and burbled at him. This child is not mine, and Naira and I will never have our own. Just enjoy this one._

Aragorn saw the youth's smile dim for a moment before returning, slightly strained, but still genuine. With a troubled heart, the Ranger followed Sorcha out of the front room and back towards the cloth storeroom. On the way, he dodged sleepy dogs and a cat, Darla chasing one of her many nieces or nephews, and Charlotte rushing to the privy to be thoroughly sick again. Once in the cool storeroom, Sorcha turned to him and folded her arms across her chest, frowning.

"What is wrong with him?" The seamstress demanded, and the Ranger sighed.

"I know not. You have managed to make him open up more in the last half hour than he has for me in the last two weeks. He trusts you."

"He does not trust you?"

"I remind him of his father," the Ranger murmured, wondering just how he reminded the youth of this seemingly cold, cruel man that Aragorn had only heard the youth mention a few times. Anarmacil's father had beaten him, exiled him, hurt him so badly. Had, if the dreams were anything to go by, hurt the maiden Anar had loved, still loved – the maiden, Nairaloth. And Aragorn reminded the boy of his father? "He was the one who stripped him of his rank and exiled him."

"What was he exiled for?"

"He claims it was for the crime of kin-slaying and falling in love with a woman of illegitimate birth, but I doubt the former. As for the latter..." Aragorn gestured almost helplessly and growled, "Surely a father would not be so cruel."

"Perhaps he would, and perhaps he would not. Why was he beaten? I know you wouldn't not have hurt him that way."

"He was wounded far worse when I found him and companion of his, a young woman also gravely injured. I found him again later, but the girl was gone. Anarmacil says she stayed in Hobbiton, which was their original destination."

The seamstress laid a hand on the Ranger's arm and caught his eyes. The concern in Sorcha's gaze arrested him. She said slowly, carefully, "There is pain in his eyes, Strider. Not just the pain of his wounds, but pain of the soul. I've seen such hurt before, in my son, in men who have lost much – men who lost their wives, women who've lost their children, those who have seen the brutality of what Goblins inflict on Men. It is a wound that must be lanced before it festers and drives him mad, but carefully, or the lancing can do more damage than the wound itself. Tell me... does he have nightmares? Moments where he does not know where he is or who you are?"

"I've not seen the latter except once, the second time I found him. He was unconscious, and when he woke, was disoriented and afraid, even when he recognized me. But as for nightmares, he usually awakes either screaming, weeping, or moaning every night. He has not had a peaceful night's sleep since I've known him."

Sorcha nodded as if she'd expected such an answer. She pursed her lips and thought for a long moment, before saying, "I will speak to my husband's brother, the blacksmith, and my uncle. He's a woodcutter. They have apprentices about Anarmacil's age. Being around young people his own age who won't be cruel to him would be best. And perhaps Master Butterbur's children-"

"I've thought of that. And perhaps he could spend some time with Darla and Timothy. They might be good for him. We'll be here for a week, at least, while you finish your work. That might give you some time to get some information out of him."

"You want me to find out what he dreams of." It was not a question. There was a calculating, almost infuriated look in the young mother's eyes. Aragorn had seen that fury in his mother's eyes before. That fury was the rage of a woman whose maternal instincts had been stirred. Sorcha nodded once and said, "I will do my best."

.

.

.

**Elvish Words and Names:**

Alqualoth – Swan-Flower

Carcane - teeth

Carnar - red fire

Envinyatar - one who renews

Fion - hawk

Gwaihir - Wind Lord

Hirraumo - Storm Lord

Imladris - Rivendell

Lahta - surpass

Mornie - darkness

Nahame - summons

Ravisoron - cat eagles; griffins

Roime – hunt

Tintanie – Star-Maker

Wennolë – Lady of Wisdom

Wilwarinath - butterflies

**Liemuina Military Structure:**

The Hidden believe that birds and other wings creatures are sacred. Their military is set up around this concept. Listed below are the different offices and what they do.

English - Elvish - Purpose

Butterflies - Wilwarinath - message runners (green and gold uniforms)

Crows - Crebain - Morquanar's guards (black uniforms)

Dragons - Loce – assassins (red uniforms)

Eagles - Soron - the army (bronze uniforms)

Feathers - Vilquesse - spies * (dove gray uniforms)

Gulls - Maiwei - Uruloce's guards (cream uniforms)

Hawks - Fiondi - guards of the _Calmarta_ King (brown uniforms)

Herons - Aiwei Aelin - police force (called the Aiwei) ** (charcoal gray uniforms)

Nightingales - Lomelindi - _Mormarta_ watchmen (common guardsmen as opposed to royal guardsmen) (black and white uniforms)

Swallows - Tuilindo - _Calmarta_ watchmen (gray and cream uniforms)

Swans - Alquai - Isilme's guards (white uniforms)

* Vilquesse actually translates as wind-feather, but collectively in Westron they are merely called Feathers

** Aiwei Aelin - birds of the lake; This was the closest approximation to the word that I could find


End file.
